Ever After
by damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: Draco and Hermione fall under a sleeping curse and get thrown into a dream world filled with the fairy-tale version of their friends and family. ::Written for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2014::
1. The Archive of Dark Matter

**This story was originally written for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2014, and it was inspired by a gorgeous art piece entitled Homewards, by raa, which can be found on that site.**

* * *

They were chased by the sounds of crushed leaves and broken twigs, punctuated by the occasional shout of "Get them!", and "Don't let them get away!" The light of the waning moon was held hostage by the canopies and did not reach the forest floor below. Lanterns moved in the darkness behind them, but neither looked back, pressing ahead while trying to avoid crashing into the trees. She could hear him up ahead — over the creaking sounds of the forest and over the sound of her own laboured breath.

"Lumos," he kept trying, his tone increasingly annoyed at the lack of results. She felt for her own wand, safely tucked into her back pocket, but did not draw it. There was no point. There was no magic here. None that they could use, at any rate.

Hermione quickened her step, afraid of losing Draco in the darkness, but a root caught her foot, sending her flying. She fell heavily with a thud, repressing a yell and closing her mouth against the dirt and leaves.

"Not the time for acrobatics, Granger," Draco hissed, helping her up. She ignored the searing pain in her ankle and followed him, only too aware of the host following closely on their heels.

Her mind kept running over the inventory of The Vaults. Whatever had sent them there, she had to know it. She had catalogued every single item in the room. She had handled most of the objects herself.

The Ministry called it The Archive of Dark Matter — a collection of Dark artefacts gathered after the First and Second Wizarding Wars. But everyone in her department just called it The Vaults. The objects were buried under layers of security and secrecy, and while she understood the value in keeping and studying them, sometimes she just wanted to set the whole room on fire.

But it had seemed like a good place to hide when Ginny warned her with a wink that her ex-husband was looking for her. Bravery had its value, but so did self-preservation, and while running away might be cowardly, it was also smart. She had work to do down in The Vaults anyway, and Dark magic was the sort of darkness she could keep at bay.

She did not run very far, however. He caught up with her just as the lift doors started closing. There was a certain smugness in his smile as he said, "Fancy running into you." Which was code for, 'nice try, love'.

"I'm working." Which was code for, 'go away'. But Draco Malfoy had never heard a hint he didn't elect to ignore, and this time was no different.

"I won't keep you very long," he said, straightening his tie.

"You won't keep me at all." She pressed the main floor button before stepping out of the lift. "You can't be here."

"And yet, here I am." Without giving the doors time to close behind her, he followed the witch into the dark corridor. The blue torches meant to identify those of ill-intent did a poor job of actually lighting the space. Draco walked by undisturbed, which did not necessarily speak to the purity of his intentions, only that they did not extend to the objects kept in the room ahead.

Hermione ignored him in the vain hope that if she could keep it up long enough, he would simply vanish like a bad dream. But it was the week of futile wishes, and he was still behind her when she crossed the threshold into The Archive. There were wards protecting the room, but they did not stop Draco Malfoy from entering, either because he was with her or because Ginevra Potter couldn't stop meddling if her life depended on it.

With a sigh, she turned to face him. "You can't be here." Never mind the Ministry. She didn't want him there.

He looked at the rows of shelves that stretched across the room. "Because I'm a Malfoy? So were you until recently."

"Malfoys are allowed," she said with the sweetest smile she could muster. "Death Eaters are frowned upon."

A shadow crossed his face, but no Malfoy had ever failed to successfully hide any hint of emotion under a heavy layer of casual self-importance. "A youthful indiscretion."

She walked to the desk in the corner, hoping to put some distance between them, but he followed close behind. "What do you want, Draco?" Leaning back against the dark wood, she put down the folder on top of a stack of documents.

"You'd know, if you bothered to read my letters. I want Bradford Cottage back."

Located at the edge of the Malfoy estate, Bradford Cottage had been his wedding gift to her. They had lived there until Scorpius was born, when the lack of space had forced them to move to the Manor. They had been happy there. Happier than at any time since.

"Bradford Cottage is mine," she said simply.

"You don't live there, you never visit. You have no use for it save to say you own it." There was steel in his tone, but Hermione Granger was not easily intimidated.

"I wouldn't say I have no use for it," she said nonchalantly. "I may decide to use it for firewood on a chilly evening."

"You're being petty," he accused. She was. So was he. When it came to dealing with one another, pettiness came all too easily to both of them, and it was a habit that was hard to break.

"I can be as petty as I please," she said stubbornly. "Bradford Cottage is mine and you can't have it."

Draco moved until he was standing only a few inches from her. "I can have anything I like," he said, lowering his voice. Under the room's flickering light, his grey eyes seemed almost transparent, and standing this close to him she could smell the combination of soap and mint that always reminded her of him.

"Not everything you like." Her hand in his chest, she pushed past him. Choosing a random row of shelves, Hermione started looking for what she had come for. The exact location of the item was written down on the papers she had brought down with her, but she wasn't about to go back for it.

"You can either sell it to me or I will sue for it," came his voice from behind her. "And I will win."

She turned on her heels. "Sue? On what grounds?"

Draco shrugged. "What does it matter? I'm sure my attorneys can come up with something. That's what I pay them for." Hermione paled when he picked up a small golden box, turning it with interest between his hands.

"Touch nothing, Draco," she ordered, taking it away and returning it to its place. Half of the contents in that room would kill them instantly, and those were the relatively harmless half. She was about to move away when he grabbed her wrist, pushing her against the shelf. The impact made some of the artefacts rattle behind her, but just then she had more pressing concerns.

"Nothing?" He smirked, letting go of her hand. His body was warm against hers and the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck sent shivers down her spine. He leaned down, kissing her with a gentleness that broke her heart.

"We can't keep doing this," she muttered, trying to ignore the distracting effect of his hands on her body.

"I'll stop when you stop."

But they didn't know how to stop. They were the ship caught by the sea in a storm, and there was no end in sight for either of them but the cold still bottom of the ocean. She had tried so hard to stay away. To keep him away. It was what Ginny could not understand, and what she herself forgot when his mere touch set her skin on fire. They could do nothing but tear each other to pieces, and they were good at it.

They took turns being petty, childish, demanding and unreasonable. A never-ending game of touch me, don't touch me, go away, come back, don't leave me, I can't stand the sight of you, I hate you, don't go. They pulled back and pushed away, and cried in the dark like children, sobbing over their inability to glue a vase back together with water.

Her body answered to his familiar touch with a will of its own, and a part of her wanted to give in and lose herself in him, but there was no forgetting that what drew her to him was the echo of something she could never get back. It only made her hate herself afterwards, and Draco had enough self-loathing for the both of them.

"Enough," she said out of breath, pushing him away. "We're not doing this again. We're done."

She could've imagined the hurt expression that flashed across his face, but there was no mistaking the smugness that lingered. "When have lions become cowards?"

She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heartbeat. "Next time you come here, I will have security escort you out," she said. "You can have Bradford Cottage back. I do not want it. I want nothing else from you. We'll see each other when you pick up or drop off Scorpius and we will be civil, but that's the extent of it. We're done, Draco. You and I are done."

His cold, hard stare was that of a stranger. "On second thought, Granger, you can keep Bradford Cottage." He sneered. "Consider it payment for services rendered."

She glowered at him, fighting the instinctive urge to say something snide back. There was no winning for either of them, and she was tired of fighting. Draco let go of the shelf and turned to leave. Just as she straightened up, the structure oscillated behind her and the box Draco had picked up earlier fell from its precarious position.

Time seemed to stand still for only a moment before the golden artefact hit the floor and burst open, sending its contents flying across the room. The silver dust hit her first and Draco next, and they were suddenly dragged out of the room by the violent pull of an unknown force.

Hermione hit the ground hard when they Apparated. She had barely time to register the presence of the pink flamingos staring curiously at her before a shrill voice yelled, "What is the meaning of this? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? Guards! Off with their heads! OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"

For a moment she did not know what to make of the bizarre sight of Dolores Umbridge red in the face, pointing at them with a sceptre while wearing a Renaissance gown and a crown. Next to her, a very puzzled-looking Mr Weasley seemed to be trying to calm Umbridge down while she continued to call for her guards.

Draco helped her to her feet and they both stared incredulous as the gate of the nearby castle opened up over a moat and a battalion came marching out, armed with spears and shields.

"Run," Draco said, pulling her arm. They both dashed in the opposite direction, where the dark shape of trees was still visible in the dim light of dusk.

Hermione could not tell how long they had been running for, but she knew she could not keep it up much longer. She was so tired she could throw up, and her feet were dragging more and more with each passing mile.

Movement on the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked just in time to see the white rabbit disappear behind a tree. A white rabbit. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder at the flickering lanterns swinging in the distance. It couldn't be.

"What now?" Draco muttered out of breath, grabbing her arm.

"This way," she said, starting towards the place where she had last seen the rabbit.

"You're going to get us both killed." But when running aimlessly in the dark, one direction was as good as the next, and he followed her anyway.

Hermione kept a fast pace, but she didn't run. Slower meant quieter, and if they couldn't outrun their pursuers, they could at least try to evade them. Everything was still and dark in the forest ahead. The witch was starting to wonder whether she had imagined the rabbit when the creature dashed out of a bush, startling both her and Draco.

Ignoring her ex-husband's muttered expletives, she quickened her step, careful not to lose sight of the rabbit again. The creature seemed intent in making sure they followed, stopping every few feet and looking back at the dishevelled duo.

With their pursuers closing in, the sounds behind them grew in intensity, which had the disadvantage of grating on Hermione's already frayed nerves, but the advantage of covering their own sounds. The rabbit led them down the side of a hill, to the shores of a lake. Without the trees, the moonlight reflected on the mirror-like surface was enough for them to see the surrounding area. The critter hopped to an ivy-covered scarp on the far side of the clearing and disappeared in the middle of the foliage.

Hermione was the first one through the narrow opening, quickly followed by Draco, who let the curtain of ivy drop behind him, engulfing the small cave in darkness once again. The opening was neither very high nor very deep, and it narrowed even further at the end into a small rabbit hole that was far too small for a human being to go through.

Hermione sat down, her back against the wall, feeling the sandy soil under her fingers. Draco did likewise, sitting against the opposing wall, and for several minutes neither spoke, both trying to get their breathing under control. Sounds came to them from the hill above, but none of the lanterns made its way down to the lake.

When the soldiers moved on, Draco was the first to talk, his voice strained by his effort to keep it even. "How does Umbridge have an army?" he asked.

"That wasn't Umbridge," she said, trying to find a different answer. Any answer.

"I saw her. That was Dolores Umbridge."

"That wasn't Umbridge," she repeated, trying to suppress the hysterical laughter rising in her throat. "It was the Queen of Hearts. It's Alice in Wonderland. It's Alice in Wonderland, and the Queen of Hearts is trying to kill us." She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to stifle the laughter that sounded too loud and high-pitched to her own ears.

"Hermione—" She could barely hear Draco. There was no space inside her brain for anything besides the fact that they were stuck inside whatever nightmarish scenario the cursed box had sent them to and there was no way out. "Hermione! Look at me." Draco sat up on his knees and pried her hands away from her face, but she could do nothing but laugh. It was all so ridiculous. They would die there and it was the silliest thing she had ever seen. "Granger!" The slap echoed between the stone walls of the small cave and for several moments there was no sound at all, and neither moved.

"Let go," she said calmly, the side of her face burning where Draco had hit her. He released her arm, sitting back.

"Better?"

She nodded. Then, realising he couldn't see her in the dark, she added, "Yes."

"Now explain," he demanded. "Where are we?"

Taking a deep breath, she thought back to the basement room where they had been arguing. "The box that broke," she started, "it was filled with Pulvis Morphei. The Ministry got it from Snape's things. It's rare…" She took another deep breath, trying very hard not to panic.

"What does it do?" Draco pressed.

"It makes you sleep. We're not really here. It's just a dream…" She dug her nails into her palms, finding some comfort in the reality of the feeling. "I've been reading Alice in Wonderland to Scorpius. That is why… That is why…" She couldn't finish.

"How do we wake up?" His tone didn't change and Hermione had to suppress the urge to scream. His calm served only to unnerve her further.

"We don't," she said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. "Our bodies — our real bodies — they will dehydrate and starve and die, and we'll die with them." Magic wouldn't keep them alive. Neither would science. There was no way out.

Silence fell between them. Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, trying to ignore how much the small cave felt like a tomb. It was monstrously unfair. She had fought so hard for so long. She deserved her happy ending. But being cursed and cast into an alternative reality with no end in sight but a slow and probably painful death seemed like a fitting ending to what had been an altogether pretty horrible year.

"We can't use magic," Draco said, interrupting her morbid thoughts. "Is it because it is not real, or because it's a Muggle story?"

"I'm not sure."

She could not see him, but she knew him well enough to know he was still clutching his wand, useless though it was. Neither said anything for a few more minutes, but when Draco spoke again, even his restrained tone could not mask his frustration. "Muggle books," he spat. "Why couldn't you have been telling him the Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

"Right, this is totally my fault." She sat up straighter, self-righteousness replacing self-pity. "You should not have been down there. I told you you couldn't be there."

"I wouldn't have been if you had deigned to answer my letters!" Caution thrown to the wind, neither was bothering to keep their voices low anymore.

"Maybe you should've taken the hint and left me alone." Stubborn, arrogant prat who couldn't take no for an answer.

"You can't just refuse to deal with me." No, but she could try. "We have a child together."

She laughed bitterly at that. "Well, it doesn't matter anymore, because neither of us is ever going to see him again." And with that she broke down crying. Dying didn't scare her. Not really. Not anymore. She had come too close too often for it to bother her overmuch. But she could feel something shattering inside of her at the thought of never seeing her child again.

Draco let her cry without saying a word. He offered no comfort and she expected none. They had very few kind words left for one another. And if he too felt the crushing weight of the situation, he didn't show it, but waited in silence for her tears to subside.

"If it's a dream," he said at last, "can the creatures in here kill us?"

She tried to clear her mind, thinking for a moment before replying. "Jon Swift, 1726. He's one of the only two recorded cases of Pulvis Morphei being used in Britain. He died sixteen hours after falling into a deep sleep. He was young and healthy, and it was too early for it to have been dehydration or hunger."

"You're a clever girl, Granger." She could hear his smile in the darkness. "You know what that means."

Hermione knew what he was getting at, but she did not necessarily agree with it. "Even if events in here affect reality to an extent, there are no records of anyone ever waking up."

"Not everything is written down in a book somewhere." He sneered. "Even if there are no records of it, it doesn't mean it hasn't happened. It doesn't meant it can't happen."

"Draco—"

"No," he said. "Maybe there's no way out and maybe we'll die here, but I'm not just sitting around waiting for it to happen."

She rolled her eyes, aggravated. If only pig-headed stubbornness could break the blasted curse, they'd be out already. She had seen the research, she had read the data. Not everything was written down in a book somewhere, but enough was that she wasn't optimistic. It was a pointless argument, however. She had fought too hard and for too long, and she couldn't give up if she tried. Maybe they would die, but they weren't dead yet.

"Okay," she said simply.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, we'll try."


	2. The Tea Party

There was a moment of confusion when she woke up, and for a second she couldn't remember where she was, or why the floor was so hard and her neck so sore. Then everything came rushing back and it was all she could do not to scream. She had done her part. She had fought her war. Surely that had earned her the right never to have to sleep anywhere other than her own bed.

Sitting up, she realised there had been something covering her. In the half-light of the cave she could barely make out the shape of Draco's jacket. Its owner was nowhere to be seen, which was a relief. Being around him was hard. It was exhausting and infuriating, and it brought out all the worst parts of her.

The light hurt her eyes when she crawled out of the empty cave. It was early morning, judging by the sun, and the whole forest seemed alive with the sounds of birds and other animals. It was a good sign. If there were still soldiers hunting them down, the animals would be quiet.

Finding a relatively dry spot on the muddy shore, Hermione knelt down by the edge of the lake and scooped up some water. It was cool and seemed unlikely to poison her, which under the current circumstances was enough to lift her spirits.

"Your hair seems to have developed a life of its own overnight," came the biting comment from behind her.

"And good morning to you too," she said without turning, trying to clean some of the dirt from her arms and neck.

"I found a road not too far away. We should get going."

She turned her head to look at him. Draco, who had never looked dishevelled a day in his life, resembled some sort of wild creature of the woods. He was entirely covered in dirt, which was particularly obvious due to his white shirt and light grey pants. His rolled up sleeves exposed his arms, which were covered in small cuts and bruises, much like her own. The only unaffected spot seemed to be the inside of his left arm, where the slightly faded black Mark was still visible.

Misinterpreting the direction of her gaze, he quickly rolled down his sleeves with a frown. Suppressing a sigh, Hermione propped herself up. "You have some gall commenting on my hair," she said. "The gossip columns would have a field day if they could see the great Draco Malfoy right about now. What would Astoria say?" Draco had been parading Astoria around London for weeks, and knowing he did it to spite her did not make it better.

"Don't talk nonsense, Granger." He sneered. "It ill-suits you. Let's go." He turned without waiting for a reply, making his way back up the hill, which in the light of day seemed not quite as steep, nor quite as high as it had the night before. With a sigh, she picked up his jacket and followed.

The silence between them was heavy with things unsaid, but she preferred it that way. Words had never done them much good, and lately the only words they could say to one another were meant to draw blood. And they knew each other too well to miss the mark.

Every now and then, Draco would look back to check that she was still behind him, though she was certain he could hear the crunching of leaves underneath her feet. It was hard to breathe every time their eyes met, which only reminded her of why it was just so much easier to stay away and to forget he even existed.

The road led them north, away from Umbridge and her army. It was as good a direction as any, and it had the advantage of leading them away from execution and certain death — into the great unknown and only probable death. They walked for most of the morning without seeing another living soul. Hermione was hungry and thirsty, and every step was agony, but she was too stubborn to be the first one to admit to being tired. Since Draco seemed no more likely to acknowledge the frailties of human condition, they both kept walking until reaching a crossroads.

"Which way now?" Draco asked.

"Doesn't matter," Hermione said, sitting down with a sigh on a boulder by the side of the road. "We don't know where we're going. It doesn't matter which road we take."

"Well, I'd rather we got somewhere," he said crossly.

"Oh, we're sure to do that." Hermione smiled, despite herself. "If we only walk long enough."

"Precisely what I keep telling people," came a voice out of nowhere. "Isn't it so, George?"

"Quite right, Fred."

Draco's hand immediately flew to his wand the moment Fred and George Weasley dropped down from a massive oak tree. Dressed in garish three-piece suits — Fred's purple and George's orange — both twins smiled from ear to ear, and Fred winked at Hermione, who had jumped to her feet, startled. She was too stunned to move for only a second, and then she ran to Fred, throwing her arms around him.

"Don't be jealous, George." He laughed, hugging her back. "I'm the handsome one, after all."

"And who are you two supposed to be?" Draco asked, rolling his eyes as Hermione let go of Fred, who gently wiped a tear off her cheek.

"We are the Cheshire Cat, naturally," said George with an elaborate bow.

"You are not a cat." Malfoy sneered. "You're not even two cats. You're two idiots wearing cat ears."

"Mate, you need some whimsy in your life." Fred bent down, picking up his purple top hat and dusting it off before perching it on top of his head, in between the cat ears.

"We need to go home," Hermione said without wasting time. No one understood Wonderland like the Cheshire Cat. If there was a way out, they would know. "Can you help us?"

"Home… Do we know the way home, Fred?" George pulled out his pocket watch, quickly checking the time before putting it away again.

"Blimey, if we knew the way home, whatever would we be doing here?"

"Certainly, certainly," George agreed with a pensive look. "But do you not recall that one map with the—"

"The thing?…"

"Right."

"That was a treasure map, mate."

"Treasure! Right. No, home. Well, we could send them to old Rumps — he'd sort them out."

"And who would that be?" Hermione asked, sitting back down.

"Rumpelstiltskin," Fred explained. "Most powerful wizard there is. If there is anyone who can send you home, he can."

"Maybe this isn't a huge waste of time after all," Draco said with a pointed look at the twins.

George reached into a tree hollow and took out an orange top hat much like Fred's, and two walking sticks, tossing one to his brother. "There's only the small matter of payment."

"Ah yes, payment." Fred turned the walking stick between his fingers. "How attached are you to your first-born?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "This is giving me a headache."

"Rather attached, Fred," Hermione said with a frown.

"Well, that's no good, then." The twins walked up to each other, heads drawn together in a conspiratorial fashion. "The Blue Fairy?"

"Retired."

"Mother Dove?"

"Too small."

"Maleficent?"

"Too evil."

"The Fairy Godmother?"

"Not actually a fairy."

"She might do it, though." Speaking louder, as though the other two had until that very moment been unable to hear the twins' exchange, Fred asked, "By any chance, are either of you orphans, royalty or both? Both would be really good."

"Pity," George said as Hermione shook her head. Draco merely rolled his eyes, clearly reconsidering his stance on his previous time wasting assessment. "She might still do it, though. Too self-righteous not to, really. Sees a wrong in the world, has to go ahead and fix it, that one. Charming girl. Not at all fun at parties."

"And where exactly can we find this fairy person?" Draco asked curtly.

"Oh, you are lucky you came across us," Fred said. Draco's expression clearly indicated that he had a different opinion on the matter.

"Maps happen to be our speciality," George added. "Come, come. We'll show you our collection. You can even have some tea and meet our friends."

Fred offered his arm to Hermione, who took it with a smile, ignoring Draco's sneer. "I've changed my mind," Draco whispered on her other side as they moved towards the woods. "I want to go back to the cave. Death is sounding more and more appealing by the minute."

"You're funny," she said.

"Hilarious," he agreed dryly, hurrying his step to catch up to George, who had pulled ahead.

* * *

They didn't walk very far, but during the ten minutes that took them to go from the crossroads to where the twins were leading them, noon turned to dusk. It was not magic Draco was familiar with, but he still took some measure of comfort from it. They were in a strange land, under a strange sky, and not being able to use his wand felt much like missing a limb. But there was magic in this place, and for now that would have to be enough.

He tried his best to ignore Hermione and Fred Weasley. It wasn't jealously. If he had to be jealous of any Weasley — and hell would freeze over well before that day — it would not be of the dead one. He would've preferred jealousy. It weighed less than guilt and stung less than regret. Draco scratched his left arm, where the Dark Mark would forever be as a constant reminder of the cost of idiocy. Sometimes he wanted to scratch it till it bled.

The Weasley twins led them to a clearing where a large table covered with food and drinks awaited them. Lanterns hung from the trees and cheerful music blasted out of an old gramophone. Sitting on opposite ends of the table were none other than Blaise Zabini and Luna Lovegood.

"You're late," Zabini said, removing an elaborate golden watch from his waistcoat pocket.

"Nonsense," George said, waltzing to the end of the table and kissing Luna's hand. "It's precisely six o'clock."

"My dear fellow," replied their host, "it's always six o'clock. That is hardly a standard by which to measure one's lateness."

"Time and Mr Hatter had a bit of a disagreement," Luna said conversationally, pouring herself some tea.

"Have a seat." George pulled a chair for Hermione next to the Mad Hatter.

Draco was about to sit down across from her when Luna stopped him with a gasp. "Oh, not there, sir. You will disturb the Dormouse."

The wizard looked with distaste at the rat sleeping half inside a tea cup. He would have recognised him even had he not noticed the missing finger on his right paw. Hermione paled noticeably, and Draco was about to grab that poor excuse for a rodent when Fred covered Wormtail with a tea cosy. "Out of sight, out of mind," he said with a wink. "Move on, mate." Pulling a large suitcase from under the table, the twin opened it and started rummaging through it, pulling out scrolls at random.

"You mean 'move over'," Draco said, taking the chair next to Luna, away from all the commotion of parchment and Weasleys.

"Do I?" Fred asked softly, without looking up.

Hermione was pouring herself some tea and was already halfway through a scone, and Draco realised he was actually starving. Maybe that ridiculous tea party was not the worst place where they could have ended up. He would have preferred different company, but beggars couldn't be choosers. With a small nod at Loony Lovegood by way of greeting, he reached for a cucumber sandwich.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" the girl asked with an inquisitive expression.

"Ravenclaws have an obsession with both," he said dryly, adding two scones to his spoils.

Luna frowned. Smoothing a crease in her pinafore, she briefly considered his reply before conceding, "I don't know what that means."

Hermione smirked. "She's not actually Luna, you know?"

"This from the woman just now dangling from the neck of one half of the Cheshire Cat."

George, who was bent over his brother's chair perusing the maps Fred held for his inspection, glanced at Draco before looking back down again. "You're not a very pleasant individual."

The wizard reached for the nearest tea pot. "So I've been told."

Hermione chose to ignore him, focusing on Luna instead. "I know the answer, Lun— Alice," she said, ever the honour student. "A raven is like a writing desk because Poe wrote on both."

"Oh, that's quite clever." Luna clapped her hands excitedly. "Did you hear that Mr Hatter? Poe wrote on both. That's the answer!"

Blaise, who up until that moment had been half asleep with his feet on the table and a top hat over his face, sat up abruptly. "It most certainly is not!"

"How can you possibly say that?" demanded Luna-turned-Alice. "It is true that Poe wrote The Raven, and he most certainly did it on a desk. Hence, the answer must be true."

"Well, it is my riddle and I declare it not to be true." He stood up, straightening his jacket, and moved down the table, coming to a halt next to Alice's chair. "Of course, Miss Liddell, you may find some other means of persuading me to accept such a patently false answer to my very clever riddle."

"Nonsense," she said with a smile, taking his hand and letting him lead her closer to the gramophone. "You mustn't flirt, you know. It is not proper."

"You're absolutely right. It's perfectly disgraceful." With a sly wink, Blaise placed his left hand on Luna's waist, holding her right hand in his, and they both started turning in time with the music — Alice and the Mad Hatter, happily enjoying their never-ending six o'clock.

Draco hated the very sight of them with the petty fervour of one who had fallen too hard and given up too easily. He loathed their happiness. He despised their delight in one another. He hated the way Hermione made a point of avoiding looking at either them or him, instead choosing a random spot on the table while sipping tea.

"Ah, young love," Fred Weasley said dreamily. "But enough of that. Gather around, children. Here is the right map."

Draco put down the mostly uneaten cucumber sandwich and joined the twins and Hermione. He had no appetite anyway. The sooner they were out of there, the better.


	3. Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

From the Mad Tea Party, they were to head through the Garden, across Wolf Woods, turn west after Hamelin, sneak past Pirate Bay and then keep heading east. That would take them to The Kingdom, where the elusive Fairy Godmother was said to live. The Weasley twins repeated the directions no fewer than three times, then wrote them down on a piece of paper, made Hermione repeat everything back to them, tried to get Draco to do likewise, and finally sent them on their way with as many tea biscuits as they could carry.

Draco was relieved to see the last of them. Real Weasleys or not, they were too much of a reminder of things he would rather forget. He and Hermione walked in silence and he tried hard to ignore her tears as they moved away from the tea party.

The sun showed its face again once they were out of range of the Mad Hatter and his never-ending six o'clock. They had no difficulty finding the Garden. It resembled a jungle of giant colourful flowers encircled by a wall that ran farther than the eye could see. Past the iron-cast gate, they were met by flowerbeds of tiger-lilies and roses, daffodils and lilacs, chrysanthemums and forget-me-nots. They towered over the wizard and witch, tall like trees. The air was heavy with their sweetly scent, and whispers followed them as they made their way across the park.

It made him skittish, and Draco resisted the urge to reach for his wand. Hermione, who until then had kept her distance, drew closer to him. She was wearing his jacket, which was far too big for her, and every now and then she absentmindedly reached into the right pocket, where he knew she kept her wand. The damn things were useless even as kindle, but their presence was comforting in a way that went deeper than conscious thought.

They both felt relieved when they reached the other end of the Garden. The moorland ahead was empty and inhospitable, but it was easier to breathe under the open sky. It was late in the afternoon when they came upon Wolf Woods. There were two signs on the side of the road, right at the edge of the trees. The first one read, "DON'T STEP ON MUSHROOM CIRCLES. IT UNSETTLES THE FAIRIES," while the second warned, "DON'T FEED THE WOLVES."

Even though the sun was still relatively high, the canopies of the trees cast their shade on the forest below. The sounds and smells of the forest quickly encircled them, and five minutes after entering the woods he could no longer see the moorland behind them. Birds were chirping overhead, and the wizard and witch were followed by the hurried sounds of squirrels and other small animals running out of sight. The road narrowed to an overgrown path, adding to Draco's fear that they would be unable to follow it much longer in the dim light of dusk.

He was tired and irritable. His feet were killing him inside expensive shoes not meant to walk farther than the next Apparition point, and the biscuits the twins had oh so kindly bestowed upon them had made him thirstier than he thought was possible. While Hermione did not complain, she kept rubbing her forehead — as she always did when tired — and he did not miss the fact she was favouring her left foot.

"There's a brook nearby." He stopped, listening for the sound of running water. "We have to find it."

"They said not to leave the path," Hermione protested without much conviction.

"How far do you think we'll make it without water?" he asked, knowing full well he was right.

She nodded, too exhausted to be difficult about it. He only took two steps towards the sound before stopping again. The woods were a sameness of trees and bushes, and they would have no landmarks to guide them back to the path. Reaching into his pocket, Draco took out the rest of the tea biscuits. Biscuit crumbs were not ideal, but they'd have to do.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked incredulous.

"We need something to find our way back."

The witch giggled, careful not to step on the crumbs as she followed him deeper into the woods. "Just do me a favour, Hansel," she mocked. "If you see a gingerbread house, don't go in."

They walked farther than he thought they'd have to, and it was almost dark when they found the brook. Just as they bent down to drink, they heard a howl in the distance. Another wolf echoed back its companion's calling from a different direction. Draco grabbed the long piece of wood on the ground besides him.

"Wolves don't prey on humans," Hermione said, spotting his movement. "And they're far away."

"How much do you want to rely on that theory?" Maybe wolves didn't normally prey on humans, but today he had seen Blaise Zabini dance with Loony Lovegood in a place where it was always tea time. And the fact that it was always six o'clock had been the less bizarre part of the whole ordeal. For all he knew, these wolves feasted nightly on the flesh of pure-bloods, and he would rather go through the night without being eaten by wild beasts. "We should make a fire," he said. Fire would keep the wolves away, and it's not like they could keep going in the dark. They might as well set camp close to water.

"Lovely idea," the witch said in a tone that suggested that he was once again being mocked, though he wasn't sure why. "How do you propose we do that?" she added.

He glowered at her. "You're Muggle-born. What's the use of being Muggle-born if you can't even light a fire with no magic?"

"Oh, we Muggle-borns have a very big advantage over pure-bloods in that respect. We know what a box of matches is." That tone right there was both the reason he had married her and the reason he had divorced her.

"I take it we don't have one of those?" he asked, trying to keep his temper.

"Touché," she said just as a wolf howled nearby.

Bickering kept them warm, but it also made Draco start considering the merits of giving Hermione up to the wolves as a peace offering. Tired of endless discussions, the witch finally gave in, saying she would try to light the blasted fire if only he would shut up. It took her the better part of two hours and many failed attempts until she managed to start a small fire.

"We'll need more dry wood to keep it going." She picked up a few rocks near the water and started to place them around the burnings logs. Setting the forest on fire would annoy the wolves, but it would do the two of them no good either.

"I'll go get some." They needed a small break from one another, or the wolves would be the least of their problems.

Draco was careful not to lose sight of the fire as he went around collecting firewood. Everything was quiet in the deep, dark woods, and even the howling had stopped. When he had gathered enough wood to last them for a while, he started making his way back to camp.

He had taken only a few steps when he suddenly hit an invisible wall. The surprise made him drop the load he was carrying. Muttering curses to himself, he pressed his hand against the unexpected barrier, following its outline, trying to find a way out. It formed a circle around him, and looking at the ground he realised why.

"Freaking mushroom circle," he growled. "Blasted hell." He could either call out to Hermione and endure the inevitable mocking that would follow, or he could stay there until the wolves came to feast on his carcass. He almost preferred the wolves. Swallowing his pride, he called out, "Hermione! GRANGER!"

The sound of running steps announced her approach. She was carrying a large stick and a determined expression, and looked puzzled when he quickly shouted at her to stop before she herself stepped inside the circle.

"Mushroom circle," he explained pointing down. The witch looked at the mushrooms and burst out laughing.

"Oh, this is too good," she said with a huge grin.

"I'm glad you're amused." He walked to the edge. "How do I get out?"

"Did you not see the huge sign warning not to step on those?" she asked with a maddeningly smug grin.

"I hardly did it on purpose," he said crossly. "Let me out."

"Say 'pretty please'," she demanded, dropping the stick she was carrying.

"Now!"

"Is that any way to speak to the only person who can save you from spending the night in a fairy trap?"

He sighed, thinking of all the ways he'd make the wicked git pay for this. "Pretty please," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Good boy," she teased, before bending down and breaking the circle by ripping out a few of the mushrooms.

They carried the wood back to their makeshift camp. After feeding a few more branches to the fire, Draco sat down with his back against a tree, while Hermione lay down on the other side of the fire, one arm under her head. Her eyes flew open when he spoke after a few minutes of silence. "When he's a little older, Scorpius should be a boy scout."

"How do you even know what a boy scout is?" she asked sleepily.

"Your father likes to talk. A lot." He smiled at her smile. "He should learn how to start a fire without magic. Or matches. And how to find food in the middle of the woods. And how not to get lost. He definitely should learn not to step on mushroom circles."

She smiled at him in a way she hadn't in a long time. "I think he'd like that."

They said no more, thinking it sensible to quit while they were still ahead. The last thing Draco saw before closing his eyes was Hermione wrapped up in his grey jacket, sound asleep on the other side of the fire.

* * *

The fire was almost out and for a moment Hermione couldn't tell what had woken her up. Just as she was about to fall asleep again, a muffled scream startled her awake. She sat up, her eyes searching for Draco. He was a short distance away, leaning against a tree, his right hand clutching his stomach.

"Draco?" She jumped to her feet, but the moment she came close, he motioned her away. "What is it?" she asked alarmed when he groaned, falling to his knees. She made to touch him but what she saw made her stop short. The muscles on his back shifted and changed, like ripples under his skin, and the fingers he was digging into the ground in pain sharpened into claws. "Draco, look at me," she asked. It couldn't be. He hadn't been bitten. It was nowhere near a full moon. "Draco."

"Run," he growled, his eyes a bright green that turned her whole body cold. She did not wait to be warned twice. Forcing her sore muscles to overcome both pain and fear, she broke into a run. There was no space for anything else inside her brain but the simple mechanics of movement — the primitive instinct to flee even when it was unlikely she could outrun a faster, stronger creature. Reason did not go into it. There was no plan, only the primal need to keep moving.

She couldn't even feel the pain in her legs and chest anymore. Her brain had space only for the sounds of pursuit behind her and for the clear path ahead. Her feet barely touched the ground as she dashed through the forest, avoiding trees and branches as best she could. Humanity had walked on the moon, invented the atomic bomb and discovered twelve uses for dragon blood, but a deer would still have been a superior species in the present situation. Sometimes a bigger brain was no substitute for faster limbs.

Draco ran on two legs, but he still pounced like a wolf when he got close enough. They fell heavily, rolling on the ground until he ended up on top of her, holding her down. He was no werewolf, but neither was he still a man. He had faster legs with which to chase her in the forest, stronger arms with which to hold her to the ground, keener ears with which to hear her frantic heartbeat, and better eyes with which to see her in the dark.

He had sharper fangs with which to rip her throat out.

Her instinct was to try and fight him off, with fists and nails and knees; his instinct was to chuckle, with a low, throaty laugh, while pinning her hands down against the ground, where they could do no more mischief.

"I'm not going to hurt you, you fool," his low, raspy voice was unlike Draco's, but the smugness was familiar enough. Burying his face on her neck, he gently nibbled on it — sharp fangs against fragile skin. "Not unless you want me to."

"Get off me," she ordered, willing her annoyed tone to mask both the fear she had felt and the relief she now experienced at finding him still him. Mostly still him.

His wolfish grin was at once amused and petulant. "Say 'pretty please'." She only glared at him, too proud to play his game. "I'm not hearing anything, Granger," he teased. Shifting his body weight, he lifted her blouse just enough for his hand to slip under, his fingers cold against her skin.

She was about to protest when a whistling sound broke the quiet around them, followed by a thump when the arrow buried itself into Draco's shoulder. He growled in pain but Hermione could only gasp as his claws dug into her side. Without missing a beat he jumped to his feet, turning with the grace of a wild animal and falling into a crouched position, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

* * *

She shot another arrow just as the creature lunged forward, catching him in a leg and sending him crashing to the ground with a whimper. With the quick, sure motions of one who had done it many times before, she loaded the crossbow with another arrow, but just as she was about to put him down, the woman dove into her line of fire, standing between her and the wolf.

"Ginny, don't!" she yelled.

"Get out of the way," she demanded. The woods were crawling with idiots who hadn't managed the simple task of staying out of mushroom circles and had learnt the hard way why they should've paid better attention. All of them had belonged to someone — beloved, cherished, missed. And all of them had slowly lost their ties to the world until they were no more than mindless beasts — wild, blood-thirsty and dangerous. It was easier to hunt them early in the transformation, when they were not yet quite so fast, nor yet quite so deadly.

"No!" said the woman, equal parts stubborn and foolish. The wolf groaned, but did not get up. "Please, Ginny," she pleaded.

"Whoever you think I am, I am not her," she said, trying to reason with the clearly distraught woman. "Your lover is lost to you. Once the change starts, it cannot be stopped. He will bring nothing but death and misery to all around him."

"I don't need a fairy curse for that," chuckled the wolf, his voice tinged with pain and scorn. "As you'd know if you were the real thing, Weasel." He groaned, moving to a sitting position. "Get out of the way, Granger. Let the lady do her job."

But what the woman Granger had in stubbornness, she lacked in common sense. Careful to keep her body between the creature and the crossbow, the woman walked up to her. Up close, the hunter could see the dark stain of blood on her side, and she was sure the wolf could smell it only too well.

"There is magic in this world," she said with a trembling voice. "Maybe not quite like in my world, but there is magic here. And there is one thing I know about magic: there is always a loophole. Every curse can be broken."

"Listen—"

"No, you listen," said the woman, with a wildness about her that matched the wolf's. "You're not killing him. You can't."

She could. And what's more, she ought to. Wizards and witches were like fairies: slippery and unreliable, and too powerful not to be dangerous. Even if there was one out there who could break the curse, there would be a price. There was always a price. But the woman reminded her of someone from long ago. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. With a sigh, the hunter lowered her crossbow. Dropping her rucksack on the floor, she took a set of manacles out of it, handing them to the woman.

"Put these on him," she ordered. "My grandmother is the magistrate around these parts. You can plead your case to her. I make no promises."

Relief was written all over the women's features. "Thank you," she said, taking the chains.

The wolf, by comparison, seemed almost disappointed, though he was quick to hide it. "Handcuffs, love? That sure brings back memories."

* * *

The maid motioned Hermione to the armchair by the fire, saying that missus would be right down. The small office was packed with books neatly ordered in the shelves that lined the walls. She had always felt at home among books, but just then she only felt like crying. She was tired and in pain, and less and less certain that there would be a way out. Because there wasn't always a loophole, and not every curse could be broken. Despite what she had told Ginny, she knew better.

When she marched into the room, McGonagall looked just like Hermione remembered her from her time at Hogwarts. There was was a somber dignity in the way she moved, all of her brisk steps and quiet competence.

"Don't get up. Mary, bring the other chair over here," she ordered the servant. "And my kit. No, no, girl, the other case. That one, yes. Now go fetch some hot water." Mary hurried out of the room and McGonagall sat down next to Hermione. "I am Charlotte Perrault," she said. "My granddaughter Scarlett told me what happened."

"My name is Hermione Granger, Prof— ma'am." She felt relieved, though there was little reason why she should. But to her, Minerva McGonagall represented knowledge and safety, and even though the woman now standing in front of her was technically not the former Head of Gryffindor, she still looked, moved and talked like her, and to Hermione's exhausted brain, that was close enough. "Where is Draco?" she asked.

"Scarlett locked him out back. Worry not," she added, anticipating Hermione's objections. "He's safer than we'll be if he manages to get out."

Hermione didn't argue. She worried. How could she not? There was no part of any of it that did not worry her. But there was no point in arguing. She accepted the older woman's ministrations in silence, trying not to wince when Madam Perrault started cleaning the wound.

"Wolf Woods does not get its name for being filled with deer," McGonagall said, her hands moving quickly and efficiently. "Keeping the wolf population low is essential to ensure the safety of everyone who lives around here. And it is not a task made easy by the supernatural creatures that live in these lands."

"I understand, but—"

"Let me finish," she cut in. "The man you knew is no more. You think you can see him in there still, but he will disappear inside that creature. He's dangerous now, but if we wait any longer, he will be deadly."

"He would never hurt me."

McGonagall pressed firmly on the spot where Draco had dug his claws and Hermione repressed a scream. "He will act as is his nature," the woman said matter-of-factly. "As must we all."

Hermione blinked back tears. She had lost so many people during the war. Too many. People she cared for. People she loved. She refused to lose anyone else. She refused to lose him. "We were on our way to meet the Fairy Godmother," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "She will undo this."

The older woman did not reply for some moments. "Viola is a competent sorceress," she said at last, "but young. Fairy magic is as old as the hills — it grows in trees, in the steady course of rivers, in the ever-beating heart of the forest. They can harness powers that human beings can only dream of. And despite what people call her, Viola is no fairy. She's flesh and blood, like you and me."

Hermione's fingers touched the wand inside her pocket and it was all she could do not to scream. It was vine with a dragon heartstring, and it had never failed her from the time she was eleven. Not until now. Hermione liked to turn up her nose at Draco over his inability to cope in a world with no magic, but inside she felt its loss as dearly as he did. And she couldn't help but feel that if only she could get her powers back, she could set it all to rights. She could take on fairies and witches and curses, if only she could get her magic back.

When her wound was clean and dressed, McGonagall served them both a cup of tea. "If you're determined to seek Viola out, I will not object," she said, dropping a sugar cube on her cup. "Scarlett will escort you. Don't misunderstand me," she added when Hermione made to speak. "I want to be sure that wolf is off our lands."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said, grateful whatever her reasons.

McGonagall smiled knowingly at the honorific. "Now, now, Miss Granger," she said. "I'm just an old woman who lives alone in the forest."

Hermione couldn't help but smile back. The Professor had never in her life been just anything. In this reality or any other, there was power in her that went deeper than skin and bone.


	4. Bandits

The air smelled crisp and sweet, and his lungs filled like they had never filled before, as if they could somehow encompass the reality of the whole forest. His legs, though still human, ran faster and faster with a life of their own, and the sheer joy of it swelled in his chest. Everything seemed louder and richer and fuller until he was dizzy with all the smells, sights and sounds of a world that never stopped spinning.

He could hear the river running miles away, the crunching of leaves when squirrels quickly closed the distance between one tree and the next, and the scratching of a fox trying to get to a rabbit that had been faster than any respectful meal had any right to be.

He could hear their voices too. Hermione's and Ginny's. Not Ginny. Scarlett. No, Red — only McGonagall-who-was-not-McGonagall called her Scarlett. Other people called her Red. Red, like blood.

Their voices were not half so distracting as the sound of their blood, all of it iron and warmth just underneath the skin. It called to him even when when he was far enough that their voices were barely whispers to his wolf hearing. Her very existence called to him when all his instincts told him to keep running.

Every muscle in Red's body tensed whenever he came into sight, and she held her crossbow like the old him would have held a wand — like a challenge and a promise of painful things to come. But she never fired and he spared her barely a growl before throwing his arms around Hermione and burying his face on her neck.

He could hear her increased heartbeat every time he came back, and read the relief in the way she moved. He had no way of explaining to her that he would always come back, and she would not have believed him even if he could put it into words. So he didn't try, showing it instead in the carefree casualness that was only too easy to blame on the curse.

"He's not a puppy, you know?" asked Red when they set up camp the first night.

"Oh, I'm sure she knows that," he purred suggestively. Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. He had missed that smile. He knew he had done preciously little to deserve it of late.

The hunter unfolded her sleeping bag in a sullen silence full of things unsaid. If it was his lot in life to be thrown into the constant company of Weasleys and Potters, he would certainly have preferred to deal with them separately. Ginny was both one and the other, making her twice the annoyance — in this reality or in any other.

Sitting down next to Hermione's sleeping bag, he said, "May I sleep here?" Neither man nor wolf would've asked the question — Draco would've been too proud to risk a no, and the wolf would have required no permission. But he was neither one nor the other — stuck in a limbo of negotiations and allowances between the two.

"Only because you make for a rather comfortable pillow," she joked, ignoring Red's disapproving glare.

He lay down behind her, an arm thrown around her waist. Hermione covered his hand with hers, lacing her fingers with his in a familiar gesture. She smelled like pack. She smelled like home. And it wasn't long before her steady heartbeat eased him to sleep.

* * *

The growling woke her up, but it took a few seconds for the scene before her to make sense inside her sleepy brain. Ginny stood on the other side of the now extinct camp fire, her crossbow aimed at the huge grey wolf whose bared teeth and aggressive posture made his intentions all too clear. The wolf's attention turned to Hermione when she jumped to her feet, freezing her in place.

"Don't turn your back to him," Red warned in a quiet voice. "Walk towards me very slowly."

"He won't hurt me," Hermione said without moving.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Ginny replied.

Praying Ginny would not shoot and Draco would not attack, Hermione took two steps towards the wolf. Sensing her to be the more imminent threat, he turned to her, growling and snapping.

"Draco, down," she ordered with all the authority she could muster. When the order seemed to have little effect, she drew herself up to her full height and repeated, "DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, DOWN!"

The growl turned to a whine and the wolf lowered his body to the ground, keeping his fur and ears flat. Forcing herself to show no fear, Hermione marched up to him and offered a hand for him to smell. The wolf immediately licked it submissively. Hoping it was not all a ploy to turn her into a meal, Hermione knelt down in front of him and scratched his head behind the left hear. "Good boy," she said. "Did the mean hunter scare you?" When Draco sat up and licked her face and neck, she was too relieved for words.

"He so much as looks at me funny and I'll put an arrow through his skull," warned Ginny, lowering her crossbow.

"What happened to him?" Hermione asked, burying her hands in his grey fur. Just the night before he had run on two legs, and held her to sleep in human arms.

"He turned." Ginny started folding her sleeping bag. "They all do. Some manage to stay in human form longer than others, but they all turn in the end. I told you. The person you knew is not in there anymore."

But he was. She was sure he was. Like the day before, he would run off into the distance, disappearing for several hours, but he always came back without fail, rubbing against her legs until she stopped to pet him. Ginny didn't voice her disapproval, but her crossbow was always in hand whenever the wolf was near, and Hermione could not fault her. He might behave like a playful puppy, but she knew that was a dangerous illusion. He was bigger than a dog, much heavier than she was, and if he wanted to hurt either of them, he could do so with little difficulty.

But the Draco Malfoy who had stood before her in The Vaults not so long ago had felt more dangerous than the wolf now running circles around her feet. Claws and fangs could draw blood, but so could words and deeds.

It was midmorning when they heard a commotion as they approached the road leading into town. Loading an arrow into the crossbow, Red motioned for her to be silent and to follow. Hidden by the trees and bushes, they could see without being seen.

A carriage was under attack by a group of thugs. One of the bandits, a brutish man with a scar that ran down his face, kept a hold of the skittish horses, while one of his companions was busy fighting Seamus Finnigan. The other men seemed to be more interested in the contents of the carriage. A thin, tall man dragged one of the occupants out, and Hermione recognised Astoria Greengrass.

The screaming woman, encumbered by puffy skirts, was no match for her adversary, though that did not stop her from trying to fight him off, kicking and biting and scratching. Cho Chang jumped after them, attacking the man with a basket. He let go of Astoria, who fell to the ground, and turned to Cho, hitting her hard across the face with the back of his hand. He had time for nothing else, for just then Ginny's arrow pierced his neck. Before any of his companions had time to react, another arrow hit the coachman's assailant in the back. Grabbing the dead man's sword, Seamus ran to Astoria, who was still down.

Ginny's third arrow missed its target, ending up stuck in the open carriage door. With a speed no doubt born of practice at such activities, a man that seemed to be their leader grabbed Cho and took cover behind the carriage. His companions, seeing the merit of the idea, did likewise.

"Whoever you are," the leader shouted. "Come out or this bitch dies."

With a muttered curse, Ginny made to move, but Hermione put a hand on her shoulder. "You're no use out there and I'm no use here," she whispered. Then louder she added, "I'm coming out. I'm unarmed. Let her go." She walked slowly, her hands raised. She was wearing a set of Red's clothes — hunter garb suitable for travelling — and while she was not armed, she tried to project an air of calm competence, that of a woman who might go around forests stopping brigands from attacking innocent travellers. She wished she had at least a knife with which to defend herself, but as she had no practice in using one, perhaps it was for the best.

"Are you alone?" the man asked, as if expecting she might tell the truth.

"Yes," she said, coming out of the tree line. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Seamus help Astoria up and stealthily hand her a dagger that she quickly concealed in the folds of her outer skirt.

The moment the man walked out from behind the carriage, Hermione recognised him. Antonin Dolohov was no longer holding Cho. He looked different from what she remembered, no longer possessing the sickly complexion brought on by over a decade in Azkaban.

He grinned malevolently, closing the space between them and pressing the sharp edge of his sword against her neck. "You killed two of my men," he observed as one might comment on the weather. "They were not very bright, nor very skilled, but they were mine and you killed them."

Hermione did not reply straight away. Her fear at walking out into a road filled with outlaws had been replaced by something else. Something primal born deep inside her, in a place of terror and nightmares, where Death Eaters still cast their Dark Mark on the sky over yet another broken body. She knew some of the other men, too. Carrow was now holding Cho, and Nott and Gibbon had run over to Astoria and Seamus, who surrendered meekly.

She dug her nails into her palms, trying to focus. She had survived the war. She had survived Bellatrix Lestrange. She would not be cowered by underlings who existed only inside her head. "An unfortunate event, no doubt," she said, her voice steady and her head held high. "But then, life is plagued with unfortunate events."

His eyes narrowed and he increased the pressure on the blade, grazing her skin. "Do you have a death wish, girl?"

No. But sometimes it was necessary to have an open mind about the possibility of dying. "I think the better question is, 'do you'? NOW, RED!" And with that, she dropped to the ground, rolling out of the way. By the time she regained her footing, Dolohov had already fallen with a thud.

Chaos ensued. Astoria buried the dagger on the side of her assailant, turning to help Seamus fight off Nott. Cho elbowed her captor, who did not let go. Hermione made to help her, but someone grabbed her hair from behind, yanking it back. Losing her balance, she fell to the ground, staring in horror at the man towering above her. He held his sword with both hands, lifting it over his head, but before he had time to strike, a flash of grey dashed out of the forest and jumped at him. The man barely had time to scream as he fell to the ground before the sound died in his throat when Draco ripped out his jugular. At the sight of the predator, the horses neighed nervously, but did not bolt.

The man holding Cho threw her to the ground before lunging at the wolf. Draco was faster, however, easily evading the sword and closing his powerful jaw on the man's leg. The bandit's challenging shouts turned into screams of horror as he fell. Between the gigantic grey wolf and the arrows that kept flying out of the forest, the remaining men quickly decided against the virtues of bravery and fled in disarray, with Draco hard on their heels.

"Yeah, you run, you beastly cowards," Seamus yelled after them. "Not so brave now, are ya?"

"Kind stranger," said Cho, moving towards Hermione. "We are in your debt. If there is any way for us to repay such generosity, you need but name it."

"And what reward would you offer an old friend?" Ginny asked, walking out of the tree line, crossbow still in hand. With a small yelp, Cho Chang ran to the hunter, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug.

"A friend of a friend is our friend too," Astoria said with a smile. "I am Cinderella, and this is Snow White." Hermione forced a smile, taking the younger woman's offered hand while trying to remind herself that she did not dislike Astoria — charming woman who may or may not be sleeping with her ex-husband.

"We're just glad we could help," she muttered, because she needed to say something. "Who were those men?"

"Pirates," Cho explained. "Their captain was captured last month. Abducting Cinderella would have given them leverage with Prince James."

"As if James would ever deal with such scum," Astoria sneered, turning up her pretty nose in a way that reminded Hermione of Daphne. "They could put me in irons or even make me walk the plank. My James would never deal with such barbarians, and he will most certainly never release that woman — horrid, evil creature. She deserves to be impaled with her own hook."

"I certainly hope you're mistaken," Cho laughed. "I very much hope that should we be so unfortunate as to be taken by pirates, your James would hasten to our rescue."

"Well, we are lucky we were spared such fate. We have much to thank our brave saviours."

"We only did our duty, my lady," Ginny said gallantly, holding Astoria's hand to her lips with a suggestive smile.

"Now, now, Red, you know I'm almost a married woman," Astoria teased.

The hunter's mischievous smile never wavered. "Hope springs eternal."

Astoria blushed prettily at that — as fairy-tale princesses so often do — but Cho seemed less than amused at the exchange. "We should go," she said. "They've left, but they may come back. Let us not overtax our _brave saviours._" And with barely another glance at either Hermione or Ginny, she walked back into the carriage, exchanging a brief word with Seamus before climbing in.

"Oh, you must let us give you a ride," Astoria insisted. "Snow and I were just on our way back to town. But what of the wolf? Should we wait?"

"He'll catch up," Hermione said, not feeling overly charitable towards the man, and certain that the wolf would not get lost.


	5. The Fairy Godmother

There was no part of Hermione that was glad to have run into Astoria Greengrass. While she had nothing but good things to say about the woman — Astoria was pleasant, smart, accomplished, and remarkably down-to-earth for a member of one of the 'sacred twenty-eight' — she resented her with the sort of petty jealousy she had spared for Lavender Brown at seventeen. It was an ugly feeling that she wished she had outgrown.

But while running into Astoria had been unfortunate, coming across Cinderella proved to be a blessing in disguise. Astoria was delighted to know they were on their way to meet the Fairy Godmother — _her _Fairy Godmother — and she set out to escort them personally so as to ensure they would meet with a welcome reception.

Draco caught up with them just as they were entering the town, slowing his run to match the horses' trot. The larger animals — their nerves frayed by the trials of a day far too eventful for their bucolic taste — threatened to bolt at the sudden appearance of the blood-spattered wolf, but after being harassed, beaten and almost stabbed by pirates, Seamus was not in a frame of mind to allow any hint of dissent, and he kept the horses well in hand.

The town resembled something out of a postcard. There were wide cobbled streets lined with well-kept houses, windows open to the morning air. Flowers bloomed everywhere — flowerbeds, potted plants, a single daisy behind a girl's ear.

People went about their daily lives, gossipping with their neighbours, bargaining with the shopkeepers or carrying the tools of their trade. Hermione half expected the whole town to burst into song at some point. But the peacefulness and predictability of their daily routine — precise like clockwork and honed over many generations — was suddenly brought to a screeching halt by the sight of the wolf trotting along the carriage.

The elderly stared in horror, mothers ushered their children indoors, and men disappeared out of sight, no doubt to search their basements for torches and pitchforks — even though torches might prove of limited use during the day, and it was unlikely that a pitchfork could be found so far away from a farm. Draco trotted on, ignoring the passers-by with a smug wolf grin that spoke of concerns greater than the superstitious terror or meals with legs.

"I don't know what has got into everyone today," Astoria said with a disapproving frown. "They're usually much nicer than this. Oh Mrs Potts, how do you do? Did you see that? She just went straight inside…"

The Fairy Godmother's house was located on the far end of a pretty town square. Outwardly it looked just like any other house they had passed on their way — two-storey, built of grey stone, with a thatched roof and flowers on the windowsills. Nothing about the house suggested that in it great feats of magic were performed — though having lived among witches and wizards most of her life, Hermione could not explain why she expected fairy-tale witches to be any more extravagant than their real-life counterparts.

The maid who answered the door was more startled by the sight of Astoria than by the sight of the huge grey wolf that accompanied her. "Oh miss," she said with an alarmed face, "today is not a good day. Madam is not feeling well; she's not receiving anyone."

"Nonsense," said Astoria, happily waltzing in. "She'll see me. Come on in, everyone."

Cho, having regained some of her previous good humour, followed Astoria with a half-hidden smile at the maid's panic-stricken expression. The young servant was so concerned over the unexpected party who had just invaded her mistress's house, that she did not even flinch when the wolf brushed against her legs as he walked past her.

"No!" yelled Pansy Parkinson when they walked into the cluttered drawing room. "Absolutely not. Out!"

Astoria laughed good-naturedly, pushing a stack of books to the side so she could sit down on the crowded sofa. "Oh, Viola, you're always so melodramatic. Be a dear and order some tea, will you? I'm absolutely parched."

"You have some nerve coming here, Cinderella." Pansy pointed an accusing finger at the woman. "Another ball! Do you have any idea what it does to my week every time you and that love-sick princeling you call a fiance throw another blasted ball? Let me tell you! Queues and queues of idiots wanting a dress, and shoes, and make up, and their hair done. I'm a witch, not a bloody seamstress!"

"What's a little dress here and there?" Cinderella rang a small silver bell and the maid came running in. "Tea, if you please," she ordered. Then, turning back to the witch she continued. "You only have to wave your wand around et voilà: dress, shoes, the works. It's beautiful work; you should be proud."

"You are maddening," the witch said exasperated. "I have transformed mice into men, a pumpkin into a carriage… I have grown children out of barleycorn, turned all the habitants of a castle into tableware, and everything anyone ever remembers is that I can make pretty dresses."

"Viola, dearest, don't be cross. I have brought you a present." Astoria smiled sweetly and pointed at Draco, who was sitting next to Hermione, his muzzle resting on her legs.

The witch stopped pacing, noticing the wolf and the rest of the party for the first time. Her expression darkened when her eyes met Ginny's, and the hunter was careful to keep her face blank.

"Most curious," Viola said, kneeling next to Draco and taking his muzzle in her hands, turning it first left, then right. The wolf growled and tried to move away, but the witch silenced him with a snap of her fingers. "Quiet, mutt. It's unusual to see a live one. Hunters can be so heavy-handed." Ginny rolled her eyes and moved towards the window without a word. "Have you tried kissing him? Because that tends to solve all manner of problems around these parts." Hermione blushed and nodded. "Pity. How long ago did he turn?"

"He's been a full wolf for less than twelve hours," Hermione said. "But he started turning over two days ago."

"A real challenge!" Pansy sprang up, excited. "Cinderella, my darling, there may be hope for you yet. Follow me, everyone. Not you, Red. You can stay here and keep the toad company. Don't touch anything."

Cho stayed behind with Ginny, but Hermione followed, more hopeful than she had dared to be until that point. Pansy led them to a room even more cluttered than the drawing room had been. There was a desk in a corner by the window, buried under piles of parchment and towers of books. The shelves that lined the walls would not have been out of place in Snape's office, and were overflowing with jars and pots filled with the intriguing, the unrecognisable and the downright revolting.

Pansy marched to the table on the other end of the room and, with a wave of her wand, swept all its contents to the ground. "Up on the table, pup," she said, tapping the top twice. Draco growled, drawing closer to Hermione. Rolling her eyes, Pansy pointed her wand at the wolf and, with a muttered word, levitated the stunned creature to the table. "You," she said, pointing at Hermione, "keep him there."

Hermione placed a hand on the wolf's neck. "Behave, Draco," she said softly, petting him. The wolf whined but lay down on the table.

Pansy moved from one end of the room to the other, flipping through books, picking up and discarding jars, looking inside boxes before putting them back down dissatisfied.

"Your hair is distracting me," she told Hermione, aggravated. "I am about to perform great magic. I cannot be distracted by such wild hair!" Before she could object, Pansy's magic tamed her curls into a neat braid rolled and pinned to the back of her head. Astoria giggled, though whether at her or at Pansy's inability to stop using her powers to embellish people's appearance, Hermione was not sure.

Turning to the wolf, the witch started waving her hands theatrically, chanting something in a language Hermione was not familiar with. The chant grew in a crescendo, ending with the witch pointing her wand at Draco in a commanding manner.

Nothing happened.

"Well, that's disappointing," Astoria said cheerfully, leaning back against the desk.

"Quiet," the witch ordered without looking away from Draco. "Turning mice into men is a parlour trick compared to dealing with fairy magic. Be quiet or get out."

With a contrite look, Astoria touched a finger to her lips and did not speak again. Pansy tried for hours, but neither spell nor potion nor sheer force of will seemed to have any effect on the bored wolf. Draco whined and growled in turn at the witch, but Hermione didn't let go and he didn't get up.

Hermione kept her opinions to herself. Her wand was in her back pocket, together with Draco's, but neither hawthorn nor vine would be any help here. She thought of all the spells she would have tried in a similar situation, all the books she could have used for reference, and all the people she might have asked for help or information.

Even now, she badly wanted to give directions, make suggestions, do anything but stand there, useless and silent and still. But she didn't know this magic. She didn't know its rules. So she held her tongue and let the witch do her work. She trusted her. She trusted this Pansy to do all she could, and she trusted the real one to take care of her child if she and Draco did not make it back.

Pansy and Harry doted on their godson, and Scorpius would never lack a home with either one of them. He also had grandparents who loved him, and more aunts and uncles than any child had any use for. He would grow up loved and cherished and safe, even if they were not there to see it. Hermione hid her tear-stained face in the wolf's fur, and Draco tried to turn to lick her face.

"Oh, that is genius!" Pansy suddenly said, excited. She ran to Hermione, grabbed her arm and dragged her to the stand on the other side of the room. Draco jumped after them, growling at the witch. "Quiet, pup," Pansy said, unconcerned. Turning to the wolf, she ripped a few grey hairs and dropped then into a silver chalice.

Fearing Draco would attack the witch, Hermione called him to her other side, but just then Pansy grabbed her hand and stabbed her finger with a large needle. She instinctively tried to pull her hand away, but Pansy's iron grip kept it over the silver chalice until two drops of blood had fallen inside.

"There's always a loophole," the witch said. "I can't reverse the spell, but I can turn him back. It's not a permanent solution, mind. But it will make him human again." She moved around the room while she talked, reaching for a jar here and a box there. "These creatures are dangerous — there's a reason hunters give them no quarter — but he's remarkably tame for a wolf. You do that. You quiet the storm inside of him and keep him anchored. I can work with that. Fairy magic is powerful, but it can't hold a candle to human cunning," she added smugly.

With precise movements, the witch added ingredient after ingredient to the chalice. When she was satisfied, she tapped her wand to the cup with a flourish and the cup disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving a bracelet in its place — a simple string of white and black beads that one might find at a market stall.

"Back on the table," Pansy ordered. Hermione guided Draco back to the empty table, tapping the top so he would jump up. "You will need to keep the bracelet in place until he turns. The transformation will be difficult and painful, and he _will_ move. Don't let him take it off." Pansy handed the bracelet to Hermione and stood back.

"Bite me and I will hurt you," Hermione threatened before securing the bracelet around the wolf's paw. The effect was immediate. Draco whined as his bones and muscles started to shift, break and change. He tried to push Hermione's hand away, but she held on, one hand on his paw and the other arm around his neck. Even Draco's frantic whimpers couldn't quite cover the sounds of bones cracking, and Hermione thought she might be sick. Astoria had turned deathly pale and had to sit down. Only Pansy watched on with the detached expression of one who had seen too much to be easily shocked.

The transformation dragged on for longer than Hermione thought possible, and she wished Draco would pass out. But he didn't, feeling every single part of the change. The fur receded as his bones shifted and stretched, and at long last everything stopped and everything was silent, except for the laboured breath of the man lying naked on the table. Astoria's well-bred pallor turned into a deep shade of pink and she looked away, fanning herself with a sheet of parchment.

"What? You won't even blush a little?" Draco asked Hermione with an exhausted smile.

"We were married for three years," she replied dryly, letting go of his wrist and resisting the urge to place a hand on his chest, just to satisfy herself that he was really there. "I dare say the novelty wore off."

"Heartless woman," he said, propping himself up on his elbows and trying to sit up.

"I wish people would stop coming up with excuses for me to provide them with a wardrobe." With a sigh, Viola snapped her fingers and Draco became fully clothed, donning a pair of dark trousers, and a white shirt under a black velvet jacket.

"Good to see you, Pansy," Draco said by way of thanks.

"It's Viola." The witch smiled affectionately, running a hand through his hair.

"Same thing," he said, returning her smile.

"This bracelet," she said, lifting his hand, "it is not a counter curse. If you take it off, you will turn again."

"I understand."

Hermione moved to the other side of the table, handing Draco back his wand. He took it with a relieved expression. "Thank you for keeping this," he said, his eyes unusually unguarded.

Not trusting herself to reply, Hermione turned to Pansy instead. "There was actually a different reason why we came to see you," she said, but the witch gave her no chance to elaborate.

"I can't help you."

"You don't even know what we were going to ask," Hermione protested.

"Do you think I can't see you don't belong here? I can see it, clear as day. And you don't have much time left. But I can't help you. Even magic has its limits."

Hermione knew all about the limits of magic. The things it couldn't change. The things it couldn't fix. But this wasn't one of those times. She wouldn't let it be. "There is always a loophole. You said so yourself."

"There may be, but it is beyond my skill. I'm not the one you need. I can't send you home."

"Who can?" Draco asked.

Pansy did not reply straight away. The witch considered the question for a few seconds before saying, "Rumpelstiltskin. If it can be done, he can do it."

"But the price…" Hermione started.

"There is no price that can't be bargained," Pansy said with a shrug. "You want a chance? He's the one. Find him, and you might find your way home."

"Where can we find him?"

"He hasn't been seen in many moons. No one knows exactly where is he. There are rumours, of course, there always are. But I can't tell you where the truth lies."

"I may be able to help," Astoria said, stepping forward. "It is not strictly true that no one knows where he is. James is close to Rumpelstiltskin. He will know. You must come to the ball tonight and ask him."

"We would not dream of imposing," Draco said gallantly, with a smile that made Astoria blush all over again.

"It is no imposition," she said. "You saved me today. It is the very least I can do."

Hermione refused to be jealous of a figment. She ignored the ugly feeling in her chest and smiled at Cinderella, thanking her for the kind invitation.

"Now, Viola, dearest," the woman said. "If they're going to the ball, they simply must have suitable clothes. And no seamstress will be able to accommodate them at such short notice."

"I hate you," the witch said dryly.

"Nonsense," Astoria grinned. "I'm delightful."

* * *

Hermione stayed inside the tub well past the point when the water turned cold. It had taken three maids to fill the wooden tub, which was large enough for Hermione to have water up to her neck, even sitting down. After days of sleeping in the woods, it was nice to be fussed over and pampered by a small army of women, but Hermione had drawn the line at having them bathe her. She enjoyed the solitude. If she made it back home — when she made it back home — she would sleep for a week with no dreams to disturb her. But for now she had to get ready for Cinderella's ball.

She propped herself up with a sigh. Rolling herself up in a bath towel big enough for two people, she started drying her hair with a hand towel while she inspected the gown laid out for her on the bed. It was burgundy with golden stitching and it consisted of several different parts, including an unconscionable number of underskirts. Lovely though it was, Hermione wasn't entirely sure how on earth she would be able to put it on. Dismissing the maids might have been somewhat premature.

Dropping both towels, she walked up to the full-size mirror on the other side of the room. "Mirror, mirror on the wall…" she muttered to herself with a smile. Her body was a tapestry of new cuts and bruises mingled with old scars. She was lucky to have been wearing jeans when they got pulled out of The Vaults, for the sturdy fabric had protected her legs well enough from the natural consequences of mad dashes through the woods. Never let it be said that casual wear did not have its uses. Her arms had not been so fortunate, and Bellatrix's handiwork was partly hidden by a large yellow bruise that she did not even remember getting.

Hermione ran her fingers over the claw marks on her side. It was only a few days old, but whatever McGonagall had put on it had worked wonders, and the wound was healing nicely. There was no infection, and it only bothered her sometimes when her movements stretched the skin on that side.

The sound of the door behind her alerted her to the presence of someone else in the room, and her eyes met Draco's in the mirror. She fought the urge to reach for the towel. "Ever heard of knocking?" she asked.

Without replying, he slowly crossed the room until he was standing behind her. His fingers were cold when they touched her skin, and he traced the claw marks with his fingers as she had. "You should have let Potter put an arrow through me," he said in a low voice. "My family has given you far too many scars."

Reaching for his other hand, she placed it on her lower abdomen, over the faint scar from her c-section. "I'm rather fond of this one," she said with a small smile. Without meeting her eyes in the mirror, he leaned his head against hers, his expression dark and haunted. Her scars were skin-deep. They did not touch her. His were all on the inside.

Turning her head, she kissed him softly on the lips. He returned the kiss tentatively at first, and then with the desperate fervour of a drowning man. She turned to face him, struggling to remove his jacket in her eagerness to feel his naked skin against hers. Disentangling himself of his shirt, he pulled her back to him, his mouth hungry and demanding. They fell on the bed, surrounded by a forest of tulle, satin and silk, and a distant part of Hermione's brain hoped none of the maids would come looking for her.

* * *

The ballroom was almost as large as the Great Hall. In the absence of magic, mirrors cleverly placed reflected the candlelight, brightening up the space. The air was filled with music and cheerful conversation, and moving from one end of the ballroom to the other was an education in how to navigate a space filled with bell-shaped skirts and twirling couples.

Hermione took a sip of her drink — a sparkling, sugary concoction — and glanced at Draco and Astoria, who were laughing together on the other side of the room. Sleeping with him had been a mistake, and she wasn't alone in thinking so. He had barely looked at her twice since, and had gone out of his way to avoid her all evening. Hermione wanted to be angry — it was an easier emotion to deal with than upset — but she could only feel empty.

It had been so easy in the beginning. They had lived like recluses for almost two years, waiting for the scandal of their marriage to die down. They had been happy in their self-imposed exile, finding a home in each other.

It had been easy to ignore how broken they both were in a world with only the two of them in it, but it had become painfully obvious in the echoing stone halls of Malfoy Manor, in a Diagon Alley filled with whispers about Death Eaters and war heroes, and in a Burrow where everyone kept remembering those who were no longer with them — and why.

Draco might love her, but he resented her too. He resented all the things she was a reminder of. It was a broken world filled with broken people, and they were the most broken thing in it.

Ginny came to stand beside her, still wearing her hunter garb — Pansy having refused to provide her with a ball gown, and Ginny herself stating that she would rather hang herself with a bolt of tulle than accept anything from the witch.

"You will claim him as yours in the middle of a forest, but not in the middle of a ballroom?" she asked, following the direction of Hermione's gaze.

"People don't belong to people."

"No," she agreed with a smile, glancing longingly at Cho, who moved graciously across the dance floor in the arms of Neville Longbottom — the perfect picture of Snow White and Prince Florian. "But it doesn't stop us giving parts of ourselves away."

Feeling lightheaded from the alcohol and oppressed by the crowd, Hermione excused herself and found refuge in one of the balconies. The night was chilly and dark, and the moon but a sliver of light in the night sky. The dark landscape around her reminded her of the grounds at Hogwarts.

"I find it remarkably predictable that Harry Potter is Prince Charming." Draco's tone was light and casual as he walked out onto the balcony. "But only your brain would think to put together Astoria and Potter."

"Jealous?" she asked, despite herself.

"Are you?" he shot back. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "Your stars are wrong."

"I beg your pardon?" She turned her head to look at him, but his eyes were fixed in the sky.

"Your stars are wrong," he repeated. "The Draco and Scorpius constellations are not really next to each other."

She looked up as well, thankful that he couldn't see her face in the dark.

"About what happened earlier," he continued, his voice more constrained, "I apologise. Back in the Ministry you asked me to stop, and I have been doing a rotten job of respecting that. It won't happen again."

"Draco—"

"Oh here you are," Astoria waltzed out of the ballroom, with Harry by the hand. "I have been looking everywhere for you. James just managed to escape yet another dance with my darling stepsister, bless her tiresome heart. I thought it would be the perfect time for you to talk."

Hermione did not know whether she should resent Astoria for interrupting or feel grateful. She smiled at James, all the while wishing he was the real Harry. He would've known what to say and how to make her feel better.

The prince smiled back, bowing slightly from the waist, before greeting Draco with a curt nod. "I hear you're trying to find Rumpelstiltskin," Harry said.


	6. Rumpelstiltskin

The heavy iron gates were open, and the courtyard ahead was empty of life and movement. No sound other than the echoing of their footsteps on the stone pavement broke the castle's eerie silence. The escort Potter had sent with them — eight burly men decked in battle scars, with axes the size of small trees — had refused to set foot in the dormant castle, citing everything from bad luck to evil curses as their justification for deserting their charges.

Draco and Hermione were left to fend for themselves, armed only with two wands that wouldn't work and a sword they couldn't use. Draco's apprehension had proved unfounded when not even a mouse stirred in the deserted castle. It may well be that a terrible curse would befall them both before the day was out, but so far they had come across nothing more alarming than a dead spider.

The first living soul they saw was a stable boy sitting on a doorstep, his head leaning against the wooden frame. With his mouth slightly open and his chest rising and falling every few seconds, he was a picture of peace and contentment. Draco made to wake him, but Hermione stopped his hand.

"He won't wake up," she said, quickly letting go of his hand. She added no explanation and did not so much as look at him before moving on. She had barely said two words to him since the night before, and while he knew she was upset, he didn't know how to fix it without breaking it further, so he said nothing, following her in silence.

The closer they came to the inner buildings, the more people they came across. There were guards and pages, maids and washerwomen, noblemen and humble men and men of uncertain origin. There was a vicar sitting precariously on the edge of a well, a bible tucked under his arm, and a little boy lay curled up with a bloodhound near a bench. All of them were fast asleep, unaware of the world around them. There was no telling how long they had been there, but though they were outside, they remained undisturbed by the elements.

If the outside was eerie, the inside was positively sinister. There was still food laid out for a feast in the dining hall, and pots and pans filled to the brim had been left untouched over the extinguished fires in the kitchen. There were sleeping bodies everywhere — bent over tables, sitting in chairs, lying on the floor. Despite Potter's assurances, it seemed unlikely to Draco that they would find Rumpelstiltskin in that tomb of living people.

All the bedrooms on the floor above were empty except for one. Fleur Weasley's Veela beauty had an otherworldly quality to it, and though she was sleeping, her lips were curved in a small smile, as if mocking the futility of their quest, for who would search for a wizard in a cursed castle and hope to find him?

"There is nothing here," Draco said at last, too frustrated to keep silent any longer. "This place is empty. It's a wild-goose chase."

"Harry said he'd be here," Hermione said. "So he's here somewhere. We just have to find him."

"Saint Potter doesn't always have all the answers."

"You're free to leave," she said coldly, turning her back on him.

Draco bit his tongue. A part of him wanted to fight. Because he was sick and tired of Potter always saving the day, because the silent castle with its sleeping inhabitants unsettled him, and because at least when they were fighting, she was looking at him. It always came down to that last one. It was a bad pattern and they had been stuck in it too long. It had to stop. _He_ had to stop. It was childish, and petty, and selfish, and she deserved better. They both did.

He was about to follow her back out into the corridor when something caught his eye. "Hermione," he called, before moving to the far corner of the room. The door was barely visible, hidden in the pattern of the wallpaper, and if it weren't for the angle of the light coming in from the open window, he'd have missed it entirely.

On the other side, a spiral staircase seemed to go on forever, up and up and up, round and round and round. They were both out of breath when they finally reached the landing. A spinning-wheel occupied the centre of the small, draughty garret, but it was the man sleeping by the window who caught their eye.

Hermione gasped and ran to Dumbledore, but Draco could not bring himself to move from where he stood at the entrance. The last time he had seen the old wizard, he had been about to kill him on top of the Astronomy Tower. He fought the urge to scratch the Dark Mark burning his arm. No day went by without him wishing he could forget that night, and no day went by without him failing in that purpose.

"Prof— Rumpelstiltskin," Hermione called, shaking his arm. The old man sprang awake at once, sitting up straighter in his armchair.

"Why, Miss Granger, what on earth are you doing here?" he asked. And on spotting Draco, he added, "And Mr Malfoy. What a pleasant surprise."

"You know who we are, Professor?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Now, now, Miss Granger. I may be an old man, but I think I may be trusted to remember my students. Or at the very least, those who made an impression. Tried to kill anyone lately, Mr Malfoy?" All the blood drained from Draco's face. "Just a little gallows's humour, Draco, no need to look so stern. Young people should not be so serious."

"Professor, what are you doing here?"

"Insomnia, Miss Granger. Terrible insomnia. It's what they don't tell you about eternal rest. It isn't always very restful. I though this would be the perfect place to try and get a good night's sleep."

"You are Rumpelstiltskin?" Draco asked, trying to decide whether that helped or injured their chances of finding a way out of there.

"So they call me. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?"

"Professor, we need your help," Hermione said, looking relieved. "We're trapped here. We need to go home.

"Severus's _Pulvis Morphei_, I take it?" The witch nodded. "Kingsley should've had it destroyed. There are enough Dark things in the world without the Ministry deciding to start a collection."

"Can you undo it?" Draco asked coldly. He did not wish to owe his life to Albus Dumbledore. Again. But he was not so proud that he would die on principle either.

"I cannot," Dumbledore said casually. "But where are my manners? May I interest you in some lemonade?" The wizard waved his wand and two chairs appeared out of thin air, followed by a floating tray. Draco moved to stand next to Hermione, whose face had lost all colour, but neither of them took the offered seats.

"You can do magic," Draco stated with barely contained rage, fighting the urge to reach for his own useless wand. "But you won't help us. Greatest wizard that ever lived, and you won't move a finger to send us home."

Seemingly unconcerned by the tension in the room, Dumbledore poured himself some lemonade. "You flatter me, Mr Malfoy," he said with a smile. "Greatness can be a heavy burden. Fortunately, it is one that bothers the living more than the dead. I don't belong in this place any more than either of you do. I too am bound by its rules."

"There is no way out, then?" Hermione asked in a small voice. "We'll die here?" Draco reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.

Dumbledore took a sip of his lemonade, staring pensively at the both of them. "What you must keep in mind, Miss Granger," he said at last, "is that the rules of this world are not the same as the rules of our own."

"Which means?" Draco was sick and tired of cryptic messages, and Dumbledore had always been too fond of them.

"That is a curious piece of jewelry you're wearing, Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore observed, pointing at his wrist. "What would happen were you to remove it?"

Draco glared at the professor, tempted to show him exactly what would happen. "Why do you ask questions to which you know the answer?" he said instead.

"Merely trying to illustrate a point." Dumbledore raised a hand apologetically, with a smile that was anything but. "Humans yield magic in this world, but it merely shapes reality, it does not change it. A wizard won't do, what you need is—"

"Fairies," Hermione said excitedly. "We need fairy magic."

"Ten points for Gryffindor," Dumbledore said with a smile. "All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust. Fairies embody the natural world and weave the fabric of reality. Only they can send you back."

"But?" Draco asked. There was always a catch.

"But they won't do it for free." The old wizard set down his tea cup, suddenly serious. "Fairies collect human beings like some people might collect butterflies. They set their fairy rings with the innocent cruelty of children, hoping to catch something beautiful. They will help, but they will require payment."

"One of us," Hermione said. It wasn't a question.

Dumbledore nodded. "You have a choice to make."

* * *

Hermione lit the candles on top of the mantelpiece, glad of something to do. The bedroom was not so large nor so grand as the one where they had found Fleur, but it was still big enough that it felt empty and inhospitable. They had argued for so long that the day had turned to night, and neither of them had any words left, nor any energy with which to say them.

They had left Dumbledore to his tea and found refuge in one of the many empty bedrooms on the floor below. It was easier to yell at one another without an audience. But it was not an argument either of them was ever going to win. For Draco it was a simple decision. One of them could live, or both of them could die. Basic mathematics. And as the moron who had stepped on a fairy circle, it was only proper that he should pay for it by ending up as a sacrifice to a bunch of pixies.

But Hermione would not hear of it. It was not in her nature to disagree with figures of authority — particularly when it came to someone like Dumbledore, who had played such an instrumental role during her formative years — but she couldn't help but feel something was not quite right. There was something she was missing. There was something all of them were missing. If only she could put her finger on it.

Draco called her deluded. She called him self-destructive. The conversation did not improve from there. After hours of arguing, only silence remained, and it proved no easier to bear than the angry shouts that had filled the room not so long ago.

Hermione put down the box of matches with a sigh, and turned away from the mantelpiece. Draco was sitting on a chair by the window, arms resting on his legs. He kept playing with the bracelet on his left wrist, turning it one way and then the other, but she knew it was not the bracelet he was looking at.

Much as he hated the Dark Mark carved into his arm, she hated it more. She hated that love hadn't been enough to make him forget the horrors, and the pain, and the guilt. She hated that _she_ hadn't been enough. And now they were out of time, and they would never get the chance to make it better. It was not fair, but why should she deserve a fate any fairer than so many others? Lupin and Tonks would never see their child grow up. What made her more deserving than them? George had lost his other half in the Battle of Hogwarts, and Molly and Arthur had lost their son. Why should she keep the people precious to her?

It was a random, brutal, cruel world, and no amount of love could heal all the pain or fix all the wrongs. There wasn't always a loophole, there wasn't always a counter-curse, and there was only so much magic could do.

Draco didn't look up when she moved towards him. Without a word, she knelt in front of the wizard, looking up at his face. He did not move a muscle, his expression unreadable as he stared back at her. She wanted to trace his features with her fingers and commit him to memory. All of him. The way he looked. The way he tasted. The way he made her feel when they were close enough to touch.

Once upon a time she would've acted on the impulse, but not now. He was too far away, now. No matter. Her memory of him was like her memory of herself. It was instinct, and muscle memory, and thoughts that lived in a place untouched by words. She loved him. It was as simple as that. Even when they argued. Even when he was difficult. She loved him always. Even when he had no love for himself.

"One of us stays, one of us goes," she said. Basic mathematics. It was the smart choice. "But you don't get to decide for the both of us."

"What do you suggest?" he asked, his tone even.

Getting up, she walked to the desk in the far corner. The occupant of the room had started a letter that had never been finished, and Hermione wondered briefly if someone somewhere was still waiting for a missive that would never come.

Picking up a blank piece of parchment, she cut it in two and quickly scribbled their names on the two halves. Hermione Jean Granger and Draco Lucius Malfoy. She loved the sound made by the quill scratching the parchment. It was the sound of the library at Hogwarts; it was the sound of nights spent in the Common Room studying for classes.

She folded the two pieces into small parchment squares, roughly the same size, and then tossed both into a vase. "Pick one. Whoever gets their name chosen wins a one way ticket to Pixie Hollow."

For a moment, Hermione thought he might argue. Draco Malfoy was not big on compromises. But after hesitating for a few seconds, he reached for one of the papers. She put the vase down and watched him unfold it. The neatly drawn letters read 'Hermione Jean Granger'.


	7. Faith, and Trust, and Pixie Dust

It was a restless night for both of them. Hermione kept waking up, afraid Draco would do something stupid like go off on his own. She knew him well enough to know he didn't stick to any agreement he didn't like, and he wasn't crazy about this one. But every time she sat up on the bed she was relieved to see the shape of his body still on the sofa. The sixth time she did it, he got up with a sigh.

"Will you go to sleep already?" he asked, climbing onto the bed. "No one should be this alert in a castle under a sleeping curse."

She nestled against him, feeling too lonely to be proud. Tonight she needed him there, with his arms around her, pride be damned.

"When Scorpius goes to Hogwarts," she said in a low voice, "tell him it's okay even if he doesn't get Sorted into Slytherin or Gryffindor."

"I'll tell him that no matter what House he gets Sorted into, his parents will be proud," he said, kissing her forehead. "Unless it's Hufflepuff. Then I'll disown him and have him share a room with the house-elves."

Hermione smiled in the darkness. "And tell him about electricity," she continued. "I want my only child to know how to turn on a lamp."

"I'll even teach him about telephones," he said with mock gravity.

"As if you can use one yourself," she teased.

"I'll have you know I'm a great proficient. Weasley taught me all about it."

"Well, if Ron taught you all about it, I see I have nothing to fear about Scorpius's acquaintance with Muggle technology," she laughed.

"He will know all about phones, and light bulbs, and cars, and televisions," Draco said softly. "He will learn that his mother was Muggle-born, and that she was the greatest witch I have ever met."

"Always the flatterer," she said with a smile, her voice barely above a whisper.

He tightened his arms around her, drawing her closer to him and they became silent. It wasn't long before the rhythmic beating of his heart — familiar and soothing — lulled her into a deep sleep.

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.

He had left his wand — Hawthorn, 10", unicorn hair core — on the pillow next to her. It was his most cherished possession in the whole world, and just then she could have murdered him with it, stubborn, bloody-minded prat that he was.

Dumbledore did not look surprised when she ran into the tower room, dishevelled and out-of-breath.

"May I interest you in a scone, Miss Granger?" he asked, pointing at the table in the corner, which was close to collapsing under the weight of countless baked goods of one sort or another, as well as fruit, tea, coffee and anything else one might need to provide breakfast to a small army.

"Where is he?" she asked, too mad even to be upset.

"Mr Malfoy? Oh, he left several hours ago." Dumbledore crossed to the other side of the room and picked up a biscuit. "I understand he had some very urgent place to be. Naturally I was only too happy to Apparate him to his destination — conventional travelling is so troublesome, don't you find?"

"Oh, Professor, you didn't…"

"Regretfully, I seem to have made a mistake and left him rather far away from his intended destination," Dumbledore added with a wink. "I'm an old man, after all, and my mind is not quite as sharp as it used to be."

* * *

If there were any mermaids in Mermaids' Lagoon, they were all hiding in the dark depths of the lake. Hermione tried not to think of what other creatures might be hidden beneath the mirror-like stillness of the waters. She had seen the bottom of the Black Lake, with its Grindylows, and Merpeople and Giant Squid, and had survived to tell the tale. She would not be cowered by the nagging feeling that there was someone watching her as she skipped from one stone to the next.

The lagoon guarded the entrance to the fairy realm, and there was no way to reach it other than by traversing its waters. The easiest way to achieve that, if one lacked a boat or the willingness to swim in waters filled with creatures of unknown temper, was by making use of the large boulders scattered across the waters. Some of the rocks were close enough that she could simply walk from one to the other. Others were far enough that she had to jump and hope to land where she intended. So far, gravity had been on her side.

Part of the lagoon was outside, surrounded by trees and sky, but it continued into a large cavern. The mouth of the cave was high enough and wide enough that sunlight invaded the space, driving away the shadows to the corners and nooks hidden in the walls. She was two stones into the cavern, when she saw Draco, who was about to reach the other shore. He wasn't alone. The mermaids she hadn't seen outside swam alongside him, chatting and laughing, and playfully splashing the water with their colourful tails.

They had the ethereal beauty of Veelas, all of them grace and loveliness made flesh. It did not occur to Hermione to be jealous. They were breathtaking, and a lifetime of looking at them would still feel too short. A small part of her brain recognised their magic at work, even though it was not directed at her.

Trying to clear her head, she jumped to the next stone, landing heavily on the uneven surface. "Draco!" she called. The sound echoed, bouncing off the walls, filling the cavern with her voice.

His shoulders fell, and when he turned to look at her, he had the ready expression of a man prepared for a fight. So be it. She would show him just how loud lions could roar.

But she never made it to the other shore. The mermaids, never ones to be outdone by mere mortals, bitterly resented the intrusion and made their displeasure felt. One by one, they disappeared underneath the surface, and for a few seconds, everything was quiet and still in the dim-lit cave. And then all of them surfaced around Hermione, hissing at her, violently splashing their tails, and pulling at her clothes. The witch moved from one side of the boulder to the other, trying to avoid the hands that stroke out at her like claws, but they were all around her. Draco called her name, but her mind was too preoccupied with trying to fend off the assault for it to even register.

She didn't see the hand that pulled her under, but one minute she was kicking her leg loose, and the next there was darkness and cold and water forcing its way into her mouth and nose. The hands and arms were all around her now, holding her legs, and pulling her further and further down. She tried to shove and kick and bite her way to freedom, but this was their element and there was no winning against the home team.

Her last thought before she blacked out was that beautiful or not, she liked the Black Lake's Merpeople much better, and that she wished she had got to see the fairies.

* * *

There was nothing but pain when she came to, her body fighting to cough up all the water from her lungs. She never knew water could burn so much. Pain spread from her chest to her throat, and breathing was harder than anything had any right to be. Someone's hands helped her sit up, and she should be grateful to whoever that was, but sitting up only made the walls spin faster, and neither her eyes nor her head were quite prepared for such fast-spinning walls.

And then came the yelling. She couldn't entirely make sense of all his words, but she got enough to understand the gist of it. Something about stubbornness and recklessness and not knowing when to give up. And why couldn't she just have stayed put and waited for him to break the blasted curse. Damn Gryffindors who always had to be the heroes. And maybe he didn't need her to save him again. She had saved him enough. Maybe it was his turn to save her.

Bless the man. He was lovely to look at, but he just didn't know when to stop talking. There was something she was supposed to say, too. She also had words about stubbornness and recklessness and not knowing when to give up. Words born in the moment she woke up to find him gone. Words that grew while she waited for Dumbledore to finish his breakfast before moving on to the exhausting business of Apparating her on the shores of Mermaids' Lagoon. But all her words seemed to have been washed away by the icy waters of the lake.

If only he would stop yelling. Hermione leaned her head back, feeling the solid pressure of the rock wall behind her. Breathing was now a little bit easier, even if it felt as if an elephant had sat on her chest. She raised an arm towards him. "Come here," she said with the voice of someone who had just swallowed half a lake. The yelling stopped abruptly, but Draco did not move. "Come here already," she repeated, not in a frame of mind to be contradicted.

After hesitating for a few seconds, Draco knelt in front of her, pulling her into a tight embrace that did nothing to help her breathe, but that warmed her down to her very soul. She could feel his body shaking against hers, and he didn't let go for a long time, as if wanting to reassure himself that she was still there.

* * *

The tunnel did not go on for very long, but it was already night-time when they emerged on the other side. Moon and stars watched over the world below, their light paling in comparison with the glow of the fairies that twirled, turned and spun through the air like overgrown fireflies, leaving a trail of sparkling dust in their wake.

"They don't seem particularly bloodthirsty," Draco observed. They didn't look particularly interested in them either, casting them the occasional unconcerned glance while going about their fairy business, which seemed to involved a lot of mad dashes through the air.

Some fairies had long transparent wings that shone in the light like glass, while others favoured the colourful wings of butterflies, or the feathery wings of sparrows. Unsure of what to do, Draco and Hermione headed for the swarm that gathered around the large oak in the middle of the clearing.

"Excuse me," Hermione said, trying to get their attention. "Can you help us? We are trying to go home." The only fairy that paid them any mind was a sparrow-winged male, who seemed fascinated by Hermione's hair. He patted a curl, checking its consistency, before tugging at it and dropping it again. He flew around her with the interested look of a connoisseur, all the while making excited bell sounds.

"I think you have an admirer," Draco teased.

"Excuse me, sir," Hermione tried again. "Might you perhaps help us get home?"

The fairy rose in the air, looking her in the eye, as if realising for the first time that there was a person attached to that extraordinary hair. He dashed to a group of other fairies, and the bell sounds rose in pitch and number. Finally, the sparrow man returned accompanied by two other fairies, a petite brunette and a male fairy with butterfly wings. They chimed appraisingly, staring unabashedly.

"It appears I'm the superior sacrifice," Hermione said with a small smile. Draco only frowned, closing his hand around hers possessively.

The sparrow fairy, clearly the leader of that small ensemble, chimed a question that Hermione did not understand. She nodded regardless, trusting Dumbledore to be right. Then, turning to Draco, she kissed him softly on the lips. "I love you," she said. "Take care of our son." She made to move away, but he pulled her back to him, kissing her again with an intensity that made the fairies look away, red as peppers.

"And I love you," he said, leaning his forehead against hers. He tightened his arms around her, unwilling to let her go. But it was not his choice to make.

When she turned back to the fairies, there were tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "You have a deal."

The fairies chimed excitedly, patting each other on the back and shaking each others' hands. The sparrow man reached for her hair again, separating a large curl. With a ribbon conjured out of thin hair, the butterfly man tied up the strand of hair with a pretty bow. Then, with a tiny pair of silver scissors, the female fairy cut off the lock. The sparrow man hugged it with an ecstatic expression, twirling in the air.

With self-satisfied looks, the other two fairies tugged on Draco's sleeve and on Hermione's jacket, motioning for them to follow. Exchanging a puzzled look, the witch and wizard let themselves be guided by the chiming fairies, who led them away from the great oak tree. The farther they walked, the fewer fairies they saw, until only their two guides remained.

Hermine stopped in her tracks when she saw where they were headed. Bradford Cottage looked just like she remembered it, with its thatched roof and grey stone walls. The fairies stopped short of the circle of light shining through the windows, but Hermione and Draco barely noticed the loss of their companions.

Inside, the lit fireplace warmed the small space that doubled as kitchen and living room. The small bookcase by the sofa was overcrowded with books, and there was an old Nimbus 2001 in a corner. Pictures occupied most of the far wall. Hermione and Draco on their wedding day, happily waving at the camera. Draco and Harry racing each other through the air, chasing a Snitch that didn't appear on the frame. There was a picture of Narcissa and Hermione's mum with Scorpius, both grandmothers cooing at the baby and telling him to wave at the camera.

It was a beautiful replica of their little cottage, but it was not the real thing. The books had been packed and taken to Malfoy Manor, the Nimbus had long since been relegated to the attic, and all the pictures had been taken down by house-elves before closing off the house.

"Fairies take things rather literally, don't they?" Hermione said, trying to smile as she looked at the pictures. "Dumbledore was wrong."

Draco grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her. "That old git never does by mistake what he can do by design."

Hermione turned her face to look up at him. "What do you mean?"

He kissed her nose, before mimicking Dumbledore's voice and saying, "Merely trying to illustrate a point, Mr Malfoy."

"Terrible impersonation." She laughed. "And what would his point be?"

The sweetness in his smile — so unusual and so missed — went straight to her heart. "That you're my home," he said simply. Not trusting herself to speak, Hermione kissed him deeply, trying to express what she had no words for. Because he was her home too, and she had been away for far too long.

* * *

There was more food in the pantry than there had ever been during the time they had actually lived in Bradford Cottage. Hermione had been a poor cook in those days, and Draco was still getting used to the extraordinary notion that food didn't simply magically appear on one's plate at meal times. Luckily for the newly-weds, they had been so close to Malfoy Manor that the house-elves had taken it upon themselves to ensure that the young master and mistress did not starve, and even Hermione's constant attempts to present them with clothes couldn't keep them away for long.

Fairies were of a less servile nature, but a single strand of hair had earned them eggs and ham, biscuits and milk and tea. Draco quickly decided he would try to make an omelet.

"Do you even know how to turn on the stove?" Hermione asked, sitting at the table in a leisurely manner and being as unhelpful as she could possibly be.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to use a box of matches," he said, almost dropping one of the eggs he was juggling. "See that? Seeker reflexes."

"Show off."

"Make yourself useful and go fetch the basket of apples I saw outside," he demanded imperiously.

"We're trapped in a fairy-tale world and you want to eat apples? Have you never heard of Snow White?"

"Of course I have. Cho. Broke Ginny's heart. Is clearly shagging Longbottom."

"Stop playing the fool and give me that," she said with a smile, taking away the endangered eggs. "In the story, Snow White is poisoned by an apple. No apples."

"Whoever would think to poison me?" he asked, pulling her to him and kissing her neck. "I'm far too pretty to die in such a pedestrian manner."

"How does death by sleeping curse suit you?" She mussed his hair. It helped to laugh about it.

"I saw Fleur. I'm sure I look just as dashing. I will make a beautiful corpse."

"Well, Mr Corpse, I was promised an omelet and I see nothing. Get to work."

"Slave driver."

"Rich prat."

"Did you know this house was actually built for a Muggle?" Draco broke two of the eggs into a bowl and started scrambling them enthusiastically.

"What kind of Malfoy would build a house for a Muggle?" Hermione tied her hair back and reached for the ham, starting to cut it into small pieces.

"The first Lucius Malfoy." Stealing some of the ham, Draco dropped it into the bowl, mixing it with the eggs. "He had an affair with a Muggle woman, and he built this place so they could meet in secret. The villagers in the area believed her to be the widowed wife of a rich merchant, one Elizabeth Bradford."

"Hence Bradford Cottage," Hermione concluded. "So you are not the first Malfoy to fall in love with someone beneath your station," she added wickedly.

"Oh, I don't know about that." He grinned, tossing the mix into the frying pan. "Who knows who started the rumours about the dead husband, but Elizabeth Bradford was actually an alias for Elizabeth Tudor. My many times great-grandfather was shagging Gloriana Regina herself. I dare say a crown kind of offsets the whole Muggle business. So I guess I'm still the first Malfoy to fall in love with someone beneath my station after all," he said teasingly.

Hermione pelted him with bits of ham until he caught her hands, holding them hostage behind her back as he kissed her.

"Prat," she said when he finally let go.

"I love you," he said adoringly.

"You better." She kissed him again, happier than she had been in a very long time.

"We should exchange another lock of hair for a basket of non-poisonous apples," he said, turning to rescue the omelet, which ran the serious risk of never realising its full potential as an edible meal. "And I'm sure those fairies could…"

But Hermione never got to know what the fairies could, for Draco stopped talking, looking intently at the wall in front of him. "What?" she asked, turning off the stove.

"Fairies…" he repeated. "Fairies and mermaids and pirates. What did Dumbledore say? 'All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust'. I thought it sounded familiar at the time…" Draco moved around the table, looking at nothing in particular as if trying to organise the thoughts inside his head. "It's from Peter Pan," he said, staring at Hermione, a smile spreading across his face. "Oh, don't look so shocked. You're not the only one who reads to Scorpius. Don't you get it? It's Peter Pan."

It only took a second for Hermione to realise what he was getting at. "But it doesn't meant that—"

"Yes, it does. That's how we get out. That's how we wake up." His excitement was contagious, but Hermione still hesitated, glancing at the small room around them, with its simple comforts and small tokens of love and family. This was home. This was the place where she had been the happiest, and the last time she had left, everything had ended up broken and in ruins.

Something of that must've transpired on her face, because Draco crossed the space between them, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. "It will be different this time," he said softly, his lips close to her ear. "We'll try harder. We'll do better. We'll be better. I'm not losing you again, Hermione. I'm not losing myself either. We can make it work."

She nodded. Her child was waiting for her. Her family and friends were waiting for her. If there was a way out, they had to try. And maybe rejoining the world took greater courage than simply staying and waiting for death in that enchanted cottage in the middle of the woods, but Hermione had never lacked courage.

"So how do we get past the murderous mermaids?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

"We fly, naturally," he said with a grin. "The trees outside are covered in pixie dust. We can just fly out of here."

"On second thought, I prefer dying." There were few things she hated more than flying. She could never see the fascination, and flying lessons were the one subject where Hermione Granger had failed spectacularly during her time at Hogwarts.

"Chicken," he teased, pulling her towards the door.

"Falling or drowning, these are my options?" she asked dispirited, following him despite herself.

"Well, starving is still on the table."

The woods outside, being as they were the regular playground of fairies, were covered in heavy layers of pixie dust. Draco and Hermione only had to shake a few branches to suddenly be surrounded by heavy clouds of golden powder that sent them into fits of sneezing.

"This is not very conducive to happy thoughts," the witch complained.

"What about this?" Draco asked before kissing her, his left hand resting on the nape of her neck. When she opened her eyes, they were five feet above the ground.

Later on, Hermione would not remember much of their flight across Neverland, retaining only the memory of Draco squeezing her hand as she tried very hard not to think about Isaac Newton.

The fairies chimed happily and waved when they flew by the great oak tree, but the mermaids barely spared them a contemptuous glance as they passed high over their heads.

The sun was shining outside the enchanted fairy realm, which had the fortunate effect of increasing visibility, while also having the terrible downside of increasing visibility. It made it so much easier to see how far above the ground they were. Hermione could have done without the information.

They flew around the island for a few hours without spotting another living soul, and Hermione was starting to wonder whether it was simply another wild-goose chase when movement caught their eye.

"I think I see something," Draco said, diving into the forest below.

Hermione followed at a more sedated pace, and she had just reached the trees when she was met by a barrage of rocks and sticks. Startled, the witch lost her grip on the magic keeping her air-born and started falling at a rather alarming speed. Draco screamed her name and dashed towards her, but someone else got to her first, catching her mid-air and lowering her safely to the ground.

Her saviour couldn't be any older than thirteen years old or so, and had pitch-dark hair and arrogant good looks that reminded Hermione of someone. He dropped her to the ground as soon as they were close enough, and she fell heavily with a thud.

"Everyone get over here," he demanded, yelling at the trees around them. "What did I tell you about trying to kill people?"

A brown-haired girl appeared from behind a tree, and Hermione recognised eleven-year-old Lavender Brown as she had met her on their first year at Hogwarts. "You said not to," the little girl said primly, "unless they're pirates or grown-ups. And she's a grown up."

Another little girl appeared, her hair bubble-gum pink. "Yes," she agreed, "that's what you said. You clearly said grown-ups were allowed."

"Well, she's no grown-up," the boy said, annoyed. "She's Wendy."

"Wendy is a grown-up," Tonks said with a shrug, as if stating the obvious.

Draco helped Hermione to her feet. "You okay?" he asked, concerned. She nodded before turning her attention back to the scene unfolding before them.

"Tootles, Nibs, Curly!" Peter yelled at the trees. "You as well. I know you're out there, you little cowards."

Three very contrite little boys walked out of the trees, their heads bowed low as if no amount of penance could ever wipe out such a vicious crime. Hermione recognised Colin Creevey straight away. Of all of them, he was the one who looked more like he had been when he died. Right behind him walked Vincent Crabbe, and it was only when Hermione realised that the third boy was a very young Remus Lupin that she recognised Peter Pan.

"Sorry, Peter," the three boys said in a chorus.

"Don't apologise to me, apologise to Wendy!" Sirius demanded, pointing at her.

"Sorry, Wendy," all the boys echoed. Lavender merely rolled her eyes, and Tonks sat on the ground, seemingly bored, her hair turning a bright shade of green.

"What about him?" she asked, pointing at Draco. "Can we kill him?"

"No one is killing anyone," Sirius said, frustrated. "Unless they're pirates. Pirates you can kill."

"So you're saying no grown-ups," Lavender said slowly, trying to ascertain the precise leeway they had in any murderous endeavours.

"Unless they're pirates," Crabbe said cheerfully, happy to have understood at last.

"A clever lot, you are," Sirius said, shaking his head.

"Erm, Peter," Hermione said at last, thinking it was as good a time to interrupt as any. "We were looking for you."

"Of course you were," he grinned. "I'm Peter Pan. Everyone should be so lucky as to find me."

"I think I see the family resemblance," Hermione winked at Draco, before turning back to the boy. "We need to go back to London. You have been there; you know the way. Can you take us?"

"An adventure!" the boy said excitedly. "Lost Boys! To the pirate ship! You are in luck, Wendy, as I have just taken possession of a vessel. Captain Bella Hook was loathe to see it go, but seeing as she's rotting in Prince James's dungeons, I don't think she'll be needing it any time soon."

"We fought great battles with the pirates to take that ship," Colin explained.

"And then we hanged them all from trees," Tonks added with a smile.

"Murderous little bunch, aren't they?" Draco whispered as they followed the merry band through the woods.

"They're certainly spirited," Hermione said, reaching for his hand. He smiled at her, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. They were going home.

* * *

The light hurt her eyes and she closed them back again. The whispers around her grew louder and she could feel movement.

"Hermione, love?"

"Mum?" she tried to say, but her throat was parched and no sound came out.

"Get the healer," Harry's voice said.

Someone raised her head and touched a glass of water to her lips. She managed to drink only a few drops before being too exhausted to continue. She tried to open her eyes again, but everything took too much effort. After a few seconds, the whole world was darkness once again.

* * *

When she woke up, the first person she saw upon opening her eyes was Harry.

"Hey you," he said with a smile.

"Hey back," she croaked. There were needles stuck to her arms, and she could see the colourful bottles they were attached to dangling above her head. "How long…"

"Almost five days," Ginny said, sitting on the bed next to her. "You're lucky to be alive."

Hermione let Harry help her sit up on the bed. Just then, her mother walked in, carrying Scorpius. "Oh, honey," she said, running to her daughter.

Hermione took her child in her arms and burst into tears, while her mother held them both in a tight hug. The puzzled little boy looked from one tearful woman to the other, but quickly decided that the tubes sticking out of his mum's arms were infinitely more fascinating.

Draco came into the room by his own feet, supported by his father and by sheer force of will. He hesitated at the door, but Hermione saw him through the tears and smiled at him. It was all the invitation he needed. Jean Granger got up from the bed, and Draco took her place, his arms around his family.

"We made it," he whispered, kissing Hermione on the temple.

"We're home."

* * *

**AN:**

**While writing this story, I kept underestimating how long it would be and how long it would take me to write it. I owe a very big thanks to my beta Raistlin who put up with all sorts of crazy schedules on account of it. Any remaining mistakes are my own.**

**Thank you also to Cali, for all the cheerleading and demands for the next chapter.**

**Finally, a big thank you to the artist who created the wonderful piece I used as a prompt. It's a gorgeous drawing and I was lucky to get to work with it.**

**While I'm very fond of different parts of this story for different reasons, I particularly enjoyed writing Pansy and the Twins (it's always great fun playing master puppeteer with those three).**

**Biggest lesson I learned writing this fic is that I should never name a character something I cannot spell. Rumpelstiltskin has got to be the most unspellable name under the sun!**

**Thank you all of you who read until here. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it :)**

**~Kel**

**Notes regarding quotes: **

**In the second chapter, when Draco and Hermione reach the crossroads and are trying to decide which way to go, the dialogue paraphrases parts of Alice in Wonderland.**

**In the sixth chapter, when Dumbledore says that "All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust," that's a direct quote from Peter Pan.**


End file.
